


walk a mile

by darkcyan, meguri_aite



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Bodyswap, M/M, Pre-Slash, for A Certain Ambiguity for Certain People, may or may not be something requested at the bar, stay tuned for more prime time theatrics!, take it as you will :'D
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-01-10 06:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12293586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkcyan/pseuds/darkcyan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/pseuds/meguri_aite
Summary: Something wicked this way comes.





	1. prologue

The walls are soft as butter, soft as human skin; they offer no resistance at all as he sinks through them.

He observes, and he laughs.

Humans are so weak, so attached to the idea that stone and wood will protect them, with no idea how fragile a protection it is. Time alone will rot and crumble them away. 

And they don’t know of any dangers beyond wind and rust. They lack the vision of a bird in flight, hearing sharp enough to listen to the whispers of trees, the wisdom borne of centuries trickling by. They are blind to those who cannot be held back by walls; lack the cunning to survive more than a handful of years.

It’s a waste of breath, snatching one of those just for the luxury of having lungs to breathe with.

Only a few have more than the merest trickle of power, and fewer yet the ability to bend others to their will. 

Those who do, make the choicest prey.  

To find one sheltered here, in this paltry human structure, is an unexpected delight, and an opportunity he has no intention of allowing to slip by. 

Human with the means to command the spirits, he breathes, delighted. Here you are.

Following the trail of rumors was worth it, he thinks. If he had stolen claws, he could sink them into the wood and arch his back like a lion, but he needs hands. He needs a voice, to command. He will be so much better at it than a mere human.

So he settles, and pulls at the threads until they are loose and ready to unfurl, and weaves a net.

The human will not escape it.


	2. natori shuuichi

In Natori Shuuichi’s considered opinion, exorcist meetings could stand to be a little less theatrical.

Exorcist circles did not generally recruit based on how Heian you looked in a kimono, or how otherworldly your disguise was, but he sometimes wondered. 

Take that one, haunting the far end of the table. Tattered grey robes, wooden sandals that ominously clicked with every step, bloody bandages haphazardly wound around both arms  _ and _ a two-face mask? With red horns protruding on the sides? There was such thing as overkill. This had to be a disguise crafted by someone young and overexcited, who’d just read his first bestiary and wanted to make sure  _ everyone _ knew about it.

Two-face forlornly picked a canapé off the table and put it into his mouth, his fingers going right through the mask.

… Or maybe not.

Shuuichi tore his eyes away from the youkai and glanced at his watch. He still had around half an hour to kill before it was time to meet his potential new client, and nothing better to do than continue mingling.

Curiously enough, for a Matoba-clan-sponsored party, he’d run into relatively few clan members – Nanase-san had made a point of exchanging a few words with him shortly after he arrived, but if anyone else was here on official clan business, they seemed to be keeping to themselves. 

Unfortunately, this left the stage open for a bunch of greenhorn newcomers to be an eyesore. Shuuichi plastered on a quick smile as he edged his way past a man who appeared to be about twice his age, regaling a handful of interested parties (both human and youkai, who Shuuichi conceded were sometimes indistinguishable) with one of his latest exploits. 

Shuuichi was fairly certain he’d been capable of doing a better job back in high school. And that  _ really _ wasn’t saying much. 

He acquired a long-stemmed glass of something dark and fragrant and sipped just enough to wet his lips. He usually refrained from drinking at these events, but holding the glass gave him something convenient to do with his hands, to make his constant urge to check his watch a little bit less noticeable. He acquired a few canapés from the assortment arrayed along the adjoining tables as well, although he wasn’t terribly hungry – he’d made a point of eating before he came. 

“Ah, Natori-san!  It has been a while.” 

Shuuichi brightened his smile another few notches as he turned to greet – Yamazaki-san, he thought? He’d accepted a few requests from him, but that had been years ago. “It has!  How have you been lately?” 

“I’ve been doing well,” Yamazaki-san said. “Business has been slower than it used to, but then, I’m getting slower too.” 

Shuuichi wondered briefly if this meant his power was also beginning to fade, as Takuma’s once had. But Yamazaki’s well-being was none of his business, so he didn’t inquire further.

“Have you seen any promising young ones today? It’s a debutante ball kind of an evening, after all.” Yamazaki-san smiled wryly. “Our hosts are certainly making it easy for experienced exorcists to cast their nets for potential apprentices. Not that I’m here to do that myself, today. But you’re certainly at the point where you ought to start looking for a student.”

The only person Shuuichi had any interest in taking on as an apprentice, he also had no intention of bringing anywhere near any more exorcist functions – least of all Matoba-sponsored ones.  “I haven’t really thought about it,” he said blandly, but refrained from going into greater detail about his unfitness to do so; acting overkill was best saved for daytime television. He checked his watch. Ten minutes left. “Sorry to break away so soon, but –” 

“Business calls?” Yamazaki said knowingly. “Don’t let me hold you. Perhaps I’ll see you next time?” 

Shuuichi’s smile shifted towards a bit more genuine. “I’d like that.” 

Leaving the hall presented no problem – for better or worse, no young exorcist debutantes were waiting to throw themselves at him. Shuuichi smiled to himself as he reached the nearest exit, tipping his hat to a handful of acquaintances along the way, and entered the gardens surrounding the house.

The mansion was a typical Matoba affair – a traditional house nestled in a garden so lush and sprawling that a few of the pathways winding around the trees and artificial ponds eventually led into a forest looming in the distance. However, today Shuuichi didn’t need to go that far. His business this evening wasn’t particularly clandestine; he knew better than to attempt that on grounds that were warded and guarded by the Matobas. It was enough just to get out of the crowd.

The spot they had agreed on was still empty – he was still early, and fashionable lateness was not unusual for this kind of meeting. It didn’t matter: waiting without having to mingle was relaxing, in comparison. He looked around for a bench or any other space more inviting to sit on than garden rocks, but there was nothing in sight. Shuuichi shrugged and headed off further down the path: a stroll would help the time pass quicker. And it was a lovely garden, if one cared about such things.

Not much further down the path, voices stopped him in his tracks. Evidently, he was not the only person to have arranged a meeting in the garden. Shuuichi briefly debated staying to listen, but the speaker’s voice, muffled and distant, wasn’t familiar to him, and when he strained to make out the words, it seemed to be some gracelessly delivered stumbling introductions. 

A debutante rendezvous, Shuuichi thought with a smirk, and started slowly backtracking. Let someone else handle this; he wasn’t yet bored enough to eavesdrop on people making awkward advances toward each other.

“What makes you think I’d be interesting in seeing that?”

The second speaker’s voice, while not loud, carried crisp and clear. As if delivered right into his ears, it froze Shuuichi where he stood.

Matoba.

A part of Shuuichi’s brain told him that finding the head of the clan in his own garden was no suspicious magical coincidence; the rest of his consciousness propelled him forward. Forget backtracking, Shuuichi wanted to see this. Needed, he corrected himself. Knowledge was power.

A gust of wind rose with a convenient timing, helping obscure his footsteps behind the rustle of leaves.  He edged off the path as he approached the voices, circling until he found a reasonable hiding spot: a decorative fountain near the edge of the small clearing where Matoba stood. The one downside was that, crouched behind it, Shuuichi couldn’t see his companion – only the back of Matoba’s robes.

“Please! Just five minutes of your time, Matoba-sama. If I can’t convince you to consider me with that much, so be it.”

Shuuichi had no problem hearing both speakers now. And judging by the pleading tone, the young exorcist also hadn’t missed the perfectly enunciated boredom in Matoba’s voice. Shuuichi wondered what kind of card he had up his sleeve, if he had pinned all his hopes on making a case for an apprenticeship with  _ Matoba _ . And, distantly, wondered what possessed him to think it was a good idea. 

Shuuichi saw Matoba’ shoulder move in a noncommittal shrug. This was as much of acquiescence as the aspiring exorcist was likely to get; after all, it was common enough knowledge that the Matobas had no inhibitions about vetting up-and-coming exorcists and approaching potential additions to the clan as soon as they caught their attention. Unless their policies over the years had changed. 

Tripping over his words in his eagerness, the exorcist started off a melodious chant. Not quite bad enough to affect the spell, though, and he proved to be far better at projecting his voice than Shuuichi had expected. The spell itself must have been something ancient, or kept close within family circles – Shuuichi didn’t even recognize the type of spell, let alone its particulars. Judging by the way Matoba tilted his head, his curiosity was piqued as well. Unwillingly, Shuuichi was impressed – on the applicant’s behalf.

The exorcist’s voice steadied as the chant rose to a crescendo, and when it finished – with a loud crack of two palms coming together, sealing the enchantment – the subsequent silence was almost deafening. Shuuichi cursed to himself, wishing for a better vantage point; from behind the fountain, he had no way of seeing what had happened.

The sound that broke the pause was, unbelievably, a slow clap.

“Congratulations on your lung capacity,” Matoba said drily. “Your elocution could do with some improvement – I suggest working on your spell-delivery basics; feel free to ask to borrow a scroll from anyone in my clan – but you have what it takes to deliver long chants. Perhaps some of them will even work, one day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting to attend to.”

Shuuichi winced – the exorcist may not have deserved a place among a powerful clan, but a little sympathy would not have been entirely out of place. On the other hand, this  _ was  _ Matoba.  

He wouldn’t have been surprised if the candidate had just stormed off to lick his wounds, or hurled some insult that would have pitifully failed to rouse Matoba’s hackles. But when he spoke, it was calmly and politely, if still a bit breathless from exertion. “I’m sorry for taking up your time. And thank you for your valuable advice, I’ll take it to heart.”

Shuuichi realized that if he wished to remain unseen, he should leave before either of them moved. Quietly, he turned to find the path that would lead him back to his own rendezvous point. 


	3. matoba seiji

The wards.

Matoba Seiji snapped awake, reaching for the subtle hum of warding that had surrounded him, waking and sleeping, for most of his life. The feel of the wards in all of the major clan properties were as familiar to him as the pattern of scarring around his right eye, and this was –

He stiffened; made a point of relaxing almost immediately. No point in giving away any more than he already had.  

It wasn’t just that something had happened to the wards around the room he remembered going to sleep in the previous night.  

These weren’t Matoba wards at all.

This wasn’t his room.

He breathed steadily, at a pace that ought to approximate sleep to a casual observer. Pillow and blanket were reasonably comfortable but unfamiliar. Bed was a bit softer than he preferred. And it was quiet. Only in the earliest morning hours were the halls of the primary Matoba residence so still.

He lay there a few minutes more, listening for any sign of people nearby. (Although if this was an attempted kidnapping, his captors had not inconvenienced him too terribly so far.)

Finally, he cautiously opened his eyes. The wards here were not too bad ― layered tight, although likely self-taught, if their cumbersome geometry was anything to go by ― but that didn’t mean he would willingly trust them with his sleeping body.  Especially since he still didn’t know where _here_ was.

Sheets of bland pale blue stretched across an unfamiliar bed, and beyond that lay a mostly-empty room. A few spell diagrams leaned against the wall and haphazard stacks of books and scrolls populated one corner. Clearly an exorcist lived here, but not one whose home Seiji had ever visited.

He sat up, and immediately noticed two things:

The morning draft was cool on his bare neck.

And a very familiar-looking pair of glasses sat on the bedside table.

He resisted the urge to immediately feel for hair that was no longer there – though he’d have given a great deal to know _where_ it had gone, and why; he’d been growing it out since middle school for a reason. Instead, he reached for the glasses.

The lenses he held to the light were still simple glass.

A feeling that wasn’t exactly dizziness rose up to the surface, but his hands were firm as he tried the glasses on. His vision steadied.

A black shape skittered down his arm, and suspicion shifted to certainty.

He took the glasses off, put them back down on the bedside table, and stood, pacing to the door of the room in unfamiliar (but comfortable) slippers. A chant on the tip of his tongue, he slid the door open – but the hall proved to be deserted as well.

His first two attempts at finding the bathroom turned out to be a supply closet and a second bedroom, the latter sufficiently full of materials that Seiji wondered if the owner had intended to turn it into a makeshift storehouse. (Probably.)

Still no attack.

He found the bathroom on the third try, and flipped the light on as he entered.

Natori Shuuichi’s face stared neutrally back.

 

 

Seiji had just finished steeping his second cup of tea when the phone rang.

Whispering a few basic incantations against phone hexes, he picked up. “Hello.”

“I sure hope you were not going to say ‘Natori Shuuichi here’”, came his own voice on the line.

That was … almost as disconcerting as seeing Shuuichi-san’s face in the mirror had been.

Fortunately, Seiji was not easily disconcerted.

“You know, it’s convenient that I’m not prone to overreacting,” he offered as a way of making conversation. “Leaves so much more time to spend on useful things like strengthening the wards.” He took a long sip of tea, not really trying to conceal it from Shuuichi-san’s hearing.

“Did you go through my kitchen shelves?” His voice dripped with unwarranted suspicion. Seiji, after all, had not made a full inventory of the scanty kitchen supplies, merely helped himself to a few teabags from the most recently opened box of black tea. “Actually, never mind that. What ―”

“Is this really a conversation you wish to have over the phone?” Seiji inquired.

Seiji had to hope Shuuichi-san was going to be reasonable about that. But he was prepared to argue if needed. He would not expose his clan to danger needlessly over something as basic as security protocols ― especially not when there were too many unknown variables to consider.

A long pause. “I’ll be right over,” Shuuichi-san said, and hung up.

Seiji put the phone down and took another sip of his tea.

 

 

“I cannot believe I have to ring my own doorbell.” Seiji’s own voice, scratchy with outside noise, came through the intercom. The static did little to conceal the grumpy tone that sounded distinctly like Shuuichi-san. _Seiji_ did not grumble.

“I didn’t think you’d have wanted me to meet you downstairs in person,” he said mildly. “Come up.”

“Just please. Don’t try to be hospitable at me.”

Seiji refrained from making a comment about hospitality standards and pressed the button to open the door. He then returned to sit on the couch, idly flipping through some script he had found on the kitchen counter. Presumably Shuuichi-san knew the way to his own apartment, regardless of whose body he was inhabiting.

The door to the apartment closed ― with a little too much force, Seiji thought. He didn’t take his eyes off the script. For something so inane it had a reasonable entertainment value.

Shuuichi-san didn’t exactly stomp into the room, but when he came to stand in front of the couch, the silence had a cinematic, _audible_ quality.

“You don’t seem very troubled,” Shuuichi-san said, eventually.

“Hello to you, too,” Seiji said, lifting his eyes. “Should I be?”  

The man standing at the end of the couch did bear a certain resemblance to Seiji. He had the right face and frame, and wore clothes from Seiji’s own wardrobe.

But no heir to the Matoba clan ever wore that kind of scowl and disgruntled expression, arms crossed in nonverbal challenge. That was all Shuuichi-san.

“Your eyepatch is crooked,” Seiji pointed out unthinkingly. “I’ll fix it.” His hair showed signs of not having been brushed thoroughly either, but Seiji didn’t think he should offer to remedy that, under the circumstances.

(Logically speaking, messy hair was also a great deal less likely to draw trouble to his doorstep.)

“That’s not ―” Shuuichi-san protested, looking vaguely offended. His hand reached to touch the paper charm affixed to his right eye, and then fell, unsure.

Seiji took it as his cue to rise from the couch and approach him. A few light touches over the paper, smoothing the crinkles and making sure the spell’s drawings were aligned with the bone structure properly, and Seiji stepped back. “There. That’s better.”

Shuuichi-san nodded once, and continued to stare at him in suspicious silence.

Seiji deliberately sat back down, and gestured towards the rest of the couch. “Why not sit? It’s your couch, after all.”

“Why are you not ―“ Shuuichi-san started, stopped himself mid-sentence, and shook his head in visible aggravation. His hair seemed to frazzle in solidarity, Seiji observed with mild amusement. “Why are you not _accusing_ me of anything?”

“Your flat doesn’t look very lived in,” Seiji said, enjoying being purposefully obtuse. “Will that do?”

Shuuichi-san growled. In Seiji’s own voice, that was not exactly the sound he must have gone for, because he immediately ran his hand through his now-long hair and flopped on the couch in defeat.

“I am not having this conversation with you,” Shuuichi-san informed him.

As a sign of good will ― and they would need a lot of that in the nearest future, if his estimations were correct ― Seiji decided to take mercy on him. “If you mean why I am not lashing out at you for allegedly arranging this, then it doesn’t take more than a few minutes to rule out that theory.” After a momentary pause when Shuuichi-san refused to look at him or shift from his very un-Matoba-like sprawl on the couch, Seiji added, “What would you have to gain?”

Shuuichi-san shot him an incredulous look. “The power and weight of the Matoba clan?”

“If my memory serves me right, you were never that interested in those. Unless you’ve reconsidered?” A silent look was his only answer. “Thought so.”

He didn’t bring forward another argument, similarly compelling.

Natsume Takashi, of whom Shuuichi-san was protective, often at the expense of putting himself between the boy and anything he deemed a danger to him. Seiji could not see Shuuichi-san willingly giving him such an easy avenue to interact with the boy.

He still needed Shuuichi-san’s cooperation, after all.

“I notice you’re not accusing me of anything, either,” he said instead.

“It wouldn’t make sense,” Shuuichi-san said. “Between the two of us, who do you think is more likely to be the target of assassinations, kidnappings and other kinds of royal treatment.”

“Perhaps I wanted to escape that particular fate.”

“Which would be very much like you, of course. And very inconspicuous.” Shuuichi-san arched an eyebrow. “I thought the Matoba clan valued some finesse with all that raw power.”

“We do,” Seiji agreed. “... Now that that’s settled, is there anything else you wanted to clear up? Or can we move on to discussing our plan of action?”

“Plan of action,” Shuuichi-san repeated flatly. There wasn’t much enthusiasm in his voice, but he wasn’t protesting either, at least.

“Do you have alternative suggestions? Going public to enlist anyone’s help would be … less preferable.”

“You don’t say,” Shuuichi-san snorted, which also didn’t add any credibility to him as a Matoba. “Voluntarily putting up a VACANT sign over your seating place at the Matoba high table doesn’t seem like a plan with _finesse_.”

“Precisely.” Seiji had learnt to rely on some people in his clan over the years ― to a degree ― but with a secret this big, three people would be too many to keep it. He did not want to risk anyone pulling favours and strings at the most inopportune moment, where he wouldn’t be able to deal with it directly. Knowledge was power.

“What sort of ‘plan of action’ did you have in mind?”

“As I see it, we have two goals,” Seiji said. "The first is to regain our own bodies, ideally sooner rather than later. The second is to ensure that until then, no one else suspects there is anything out of place.”

“And you think we can do that.”

“Are you not feeling up to the task?” Seiji asked with genuine surprise. “This is what you do for a living.”

Shuuichi-san pinched the bridge of his nose, which threatened the position of the paper charm across his face. He did straighten it correctly, though. Perhaps this _would_ work. “Okay, fine. Method acting at its finest. But do you have even the first idea as to why this has happened?”

“Likely it is the result of something that took place at last night’s exorcist meeting,” Seiji said.  Shuuichi-san stilled suddenly. He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“The young exorcist you met outside, near the end of the night,” he said.  Seiji blinked.  He’d almost forgotten the encounter already. “That’s probably the nearest we came to each other.”

“You saw that?” Seiji hid his surprise under a veil of mild curiosity. “Then I would agree, it seems the most likely possibility.” He paused, then grudgingly admitted, “I was not at all familiar with the spell he demonstrated.”

“Nor was I,” Shuuichi-san said. “I thought it didn’t work, though?”

“It definitely had no tangible effect immediately afterwards. But it seems it’s the biggest lead we have on our hands right now.”

“I’ll look into him,” Shuuichi-san nodded. “Is there anything else that I will need to do right away?”

Seiji considered his plans for the next few days. “... I’ll make a list.” He picked up the script.  “I’d appreciate one from you as well. I assume _this_ is your latest engagement?”

“ _You_ are seriously going for a shooting of a straight-to-television drama?” Shuuichi-san looked at the script wondrously, and then back at Seiji. “Well. I hope you have a good memory for lines. I cannot vouch they have much meaning, but not all directors appreciate ad lib.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Seiji said dryly. “Here’s hoping all these years of spellcasting practice will come in handy.”

Shuuichi-san rolled his eyes, and Seiji thought, yes, there was a chance it would work out.

He opened his mouth, but before he had a chance to speak, the phone rang.

Automatically, Shuuichi-san reached for it. Seiji had to step in and stop him with a hand on his wrist, and picked up the receiver himself.

“Natori Shuuichi speaking,” Seiji said, holding the receiver between them, so that Shuuichi-san could hear the conversation too. He glared, but didn’t protest.

“Natori-san? Hello?” The voice carried loud enough to be heard to both of them. It was also instantly recognizable.

Natsume Takashi.


	4. tanuma kaname

“Natsume-kun.”  Natori-san’s voice drifted warmly over the phone line. “How are you?” 

“I’m doing well,” Tanuma Kaname said. He tried not to stare as he looked to Natsume for guidance. It had been several hours, but seeing Natsume’s expressions on Kaname’s own face was still incredibly distracting. It wasn’t usually what he looked at to find confidence.

Natsume gave him a silent, steadying nod, so Tanuma braved on. “I wanted to let you know that I probably won’t be able to make it to your place this afternoon after all. Something came up.”

Did he sound Natsume enough?  Natsume himself seemed to approve, but … 

“Nothing serious, I hope?” Natori-san asked. 

“No, not at all!” Kaname said hastily.  “I’m just busier than I expected. Too much homework.” Which he was fairly certain counted as the most obvious and least believable excuse ever. 

Natori-san laughed. “Ah, high school, fond memories. Good luck, and let me know when you’re free next.” A pause. Kaname wondered if Natori-san wanted him to name a new date, but Natsume just shook his head. “I’m looking forward to more of Fujiwara-san’s delicious jam, whenever you can bring it.” 

Natsume smiled, and Kaname couldn’t help smiling back. “I’ll be sure to let her know.  N – Tanuma and I are looking forward to seeing your show, too.” 

Natsume made a dubious face, and Kaname bit his lip trying not to laugh. Well,  _ he _ was looking forward to it, at least. 

After they said their goodbyes Kaname safely returned the receiver to the phone, and slumped with relief. “That was nerve-wracking,” he said plaintively, stretching his shoulders. “Why can’t you just magically fix this, Ponta?” He jokingly glowered at Natsume’s guardian, who was doing his best housecat impression.

“Too much of a bother,” Ponta said dismissively, and scratched behind his ear. 

Natsume shot his guardian an irritated look before turning back to Kaname. “You did a great job,” he said reassuringly, and then turned back to Ponta again. “And  _ you  _ should actually start looking into this, before Tanuma has to do anything more dangerous!”

“I don’t think the boy was in much danger just by talking to that shady exorcist.” Ponta extended his claws from his chubby front paws. They were lucky Taki wasn’t here to see this adorableness. “Besides, he can handle himself.”

“He shouldn’t have to  _ handle  _ himself, Sensei!” Natsume said. “Have you forgotten that it’s your  _ job _ ?”

“Tche.” The cat turned his back to them. “I’m on it already. Don’t worry so much.”

Kaname didn’t really think Ponta looked like he was ‘on’ anything, but he also knew better than to stick his nose into this particular argument. Instead, he turned his attention to Natsume, who was clearly besides himself with worry.

“Natsume, I won’t purposefully go looking for sticky situations, I promise.” He reached out to put his hand on Natsume’s shoulder. It being his own shoulder made that easier, somehow. “And I don’t plan on disappearing anywhere, so you won’t have to guess what is happening – I will always tell you what I’m seeing.” 

He really really hoped that hadn’t sounded like a backward complaint about all the times he had been left in the dark, guessing and worrying himself sick, because that honestly wasn’t what he had been trying to say. This simply wasn’t about him. 

“... Thanks,” Natsume said quietly. The tension in his shoulders seemed to release, just a bit – Kaname felt his weight lean a little bit more against his hand. “I’m sorry you’ve gotten caught up in … this.” 

Kaname wasn’t – although this was far stranger than anything else he’d encountered – but he suspected Natsume wouldn’t appreciate him saying so.  “Do you have any idea what might have caused this?”  He cast a glance towards Ponta as well, but the cat had gone back to aggressively ignoring them. 

Natsume shook his head. “I’ve been thinking, but...” 

Kaname wasn’t surprised. He remembered seeing the look of shock and suspicion on Natsume’s – on his  _ own _ face – when they woke up. At least they were no longer jumping at the sight of each other. 

“No one –” Kaname hesitated. Normally he wouldn’t push; would let Natsume tell him as much as he wanted, when he was ready. “There aren’t any youkai after you are there?  That could do something like this?” 

Ponta snorted, and muttered something under his breath that sounded like “No more than usual.” 

Natsume glared at him, then turned back to Kaname. “No one that could do this.  I had no idea this was even  _ possible _ .” 

Ponta narrowed his eyes with truly catlike disdain. His pretense of ignoring them was flakey at best, Kaname thought with a smile.

“Could it be like that youkai who reversed your age?” he asked. 

Natsume ducked his head. “I don’t think so?” he offered. “That one thought it was doing me a favor. Youkai often have the strangest ideas of what we want, but I don’t think even they would think  _ this  _ is a good way to say thank-you.” 

He paused again, thinking. “I also don’t remember seeing any unfamiliar youkai around yesterday. It’s not unusual, for the area around your house – it’s usually very quiet here – so I didn’t pay it much mind. There wasn’t anything weird – until we woke up.” He gulped uncomfortably. “Have you noticed anything today, Tanuma?”

Kaname’s heart went out to him. It must feel to Natsume like a limb was missing. 

He wanted to offer again to be Natsume’s eyes, but bit back the words: he knew they wouldn’t help. He’d learned the hard way that Natsume would always be far too aware of possible dangers to ever welcome Kaname’s involvement, even knowing how much he craved seeing more of the spirit world with him. 

Kaname might understand now, but that didn’t stop him from wanting it. 

“No, I haven’t seen anything – anyone – around the house.” Hoping to cheer Natsume up, he asked, “I assume no mysterious headaches for you either?”

Natsume’s smile was weak, and quickly replaced by a frown. “Are your headaches always youkai-related? I never thought to ask before, I’m sorry.”

Kaname shrugged. “I wouldn’t know for sure – it’s a safe bet that some of them are just low blood sugar.” Natsume winced again, probably realizing that Kaname wouldn’t usually know, without his confirmation, whether his dizzy spells were youkai-caused or not. Kaname fought the urge to apologize. None of this was Natsume’s fault. “Please don’t overthink that, you won’t have to guess. You have Ponta, and I’ll – I’ll be around, too. And we’ll fix this soon.”

Natsume straightened and nodded once, firmly. “We will.”  He looked at Ponta. “Earlier, you sounded like you knew of youkai who could do this, Sensei?” 

He sat back on his haunches. “I’ve heard rumors that it’s possible,” he corrected, obviously pained by the admission that he didn’t know everything. “They’d have to be a pretty big deal.  This isn’t some simple possession that any small fry can do.” 

“No one like that’s come to town, have they?” Natsume asked. “I haven’t heard anything, but I know you’re more knowledgeable about these things.” 

Ponta puffed up, clearly not immune to Natsume’s transparent flattery. “Even you would have noticed it. The stir would have been so big that Yatsuhara wouldn’t have shut up about it for weeks.” 

Natsume nodded. 

Kaname wondered what it would be like, to be exposed to the gossip of an entirely different world on a daily basis.  Selfishly, he hoped he’d have at least a small chance to find out. 

“I suppose I could go ask around,” Ponta said, with the air of someone granting a significant concession. “Even if a youkai like that was trying to lay low, someone would have noticed their presence.” 

“I’d appreciate it,” Natsume said. 

Ponta jumped through the open door onto the veranda, and from there to the ground, then waddled off through the grass towards the forest. 

Natsume muttered something under his breath that Kaname didn’t quite catch.  “What?” 

“It’s nothing,” Natsume said, smiling sheepishly. “I was just ... Sometimes Sensei can get a bit … distracted.” 

Kaname smiled. “By food stalls?”

That startled Natsume into a laugh. “Those too.”

“So we should probably keep trying to figure things out ourselves?” 

He didn’t ask if they should tell anyone. Natsume kept his secrets close to his chest. When so few people knew he could see youkai, Kaname doubted Natsume would be eager to share this, either.

Unsurprisingly, Natsume didn’t disagree. “That would be a good idea, although we’ll need to be careful.  There might be … problems, if  _ this  _ became public knowledge. And I don’t want to make trouble for anyone.” He was worrying at his lip, and Kaname had a good guess who he was thinking about.

“I think we can keep it from your family, if we stick together. Do you want to stay over for longer? My dad isn’t coming back for a week, and that way they’ll know where you are.” Natsume was a frequent guest here, so another sleepover or two shouldn’t raise their suspicions.

But Natsume kept frowning, a miserable expression that somehow looked even sadder on Kaname’s features. Something else was still eating at him.

“Or would you prefer to stay in your own room instead?” Kaname tried. He was fully aware he had basically invited himself to lodge in Natsume’s room until this was over, but firmly told himself to stop feeling awkward when they had more important things to focus on.

Besides, while they held most of their overnight study sessions here, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent the night at the Fujiwara’s place. 

… Just the first time he’d done so as Natsume. 

“If you wouldn’t mind?” Natsume asked hesitantly. “I know staying here would probably be more convenient, but …” 

Tanuma smiled, relieved that he had guessed correctly. “Whatever works best. Do you want to call Touko-san –” he stopped. The secret would be out in minutes if he didn’t get better at this than that. “Do you want  _ me _ to call Touko-san, to ask if, um, you can spend the night?” 

Natsume smiled wryly. “That would be good.” 

This call went even more quickly and less painfully than the one with Natori-san earlier; Kaname had listened to Natsume have similar conversations often enough that he had a good feel for how it should go even without Natsume hovering at his shoulder, ready to offer corrections. 

It was unexpectedly touching to be on the receiving end of Touko-san’s affectionate voice as she assured him that Kaname-kun was always welcome; their big house was too empty anyway. 

He was still smiling as the call ended. “She said there’d be plenty of dinner for both of us, too. Do you want to head over now? I’ll pack a few of my things for you, if you want to gather up the rest of our stuff.” 

“Sure,” Natsume said. His bag – Kaname’s bag, for now, he supposed – was here, but they’d left their school books strewn across the table in another room.  

He reached the doorway, and hesitated. “I’ll be just down the hall, so. Shout if you see anything?” He met Kaname’s eyes. “Really, anything.” 

“I will,” Kaname promised. “It won’t take me long to pack, and then I’ll be right there.” 

Good as his word, Kaname was done in no time. The thought that he was packing for  _ Natsume _ made it more nerve-wracking, but Kaname told himself to stop being silly. Natsume wouldn’t care which T-shirts he picked.     

“All right, I think I’m ready –” he called as he entered the other room. 

Kaname stopped in is tracks: the previous night’s study materials were still strewn across the table, and Natsume’s attention was clearly elsewhere. He stood in the center of the room, staring outside with a complicated look on his face. 

Youkai interference? But no, the room looked empty aside from the two of them, and now he  _ would _ be able to see any youkai that existed. He padded across the floor. “Natsume?” 

“It’s not there,” Natsume said quietly. He glanced at Kaname and grimaced. “Sorry, I never realized – I knew you mentioned all you could see were the shadows, but –” Natsume pulled at his hair ruefully. “I’m saying thoughtless things, aren’t I?” 

Oh.  _ Oh. _

“It’s fine,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry with realization. Slowly, very slowly, he looked past Natsume, and almost had to sit down. “Wow.” 

A ripple of color and reflected sunlight. Red and gold koi backs flickering, breaking the still mirror surface of the water.

“I hadn’t realized it was so – it looks  _ real _ . These koi – they are big. They are  _ fat _ !” Kaname said, delighted. He wondered briefly if Ponta had ever tried catching them. Kaname would definitely try, if he was a cat, he thought giddily. But Natsume’s expression, when Kaname turned to him, was still fragile, and his amusement trickled away. “Sorry, I guess that was thoughtless of me, too, wasn’t it?” 

Natsume looked surprised for a moment, then laughed. “Sorry. And also – we should stop apologizing, probably, or we won’t ever stop. We’re really a pair, aren’t we?”  He gave Kaname one of his quiet smiles, the kind that warmed him on the inside like a cup of hot chocolate on a chilly evening. When Natsume looked outside again, it was more fond, if somewhat wistful. “And yes, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” Kaname agreed wholeheartedly. 

He dragged his eyes away from the pond – would he ever see it again, like this? A splendour of color and light, instead of a sketchy shadow caught from the corner of his eye? Kaname was greedy for every bit of magic, and he knew it, but this wasn’t about him.

He reached out for Natsume. “You’ll be able to see it again, soon,” he said firmly, squeezing his hand on Natsume’s – on his own – bony shoulder. The thought was ridiculous enough to bring a smile to his face. “Until then, I’ll make sure Ponta doesn’t catch all the fish in it. Speaking of, do you think we should wait for him?”

Natsume snorted. “He’ll find his way home for sure. It’s tempura shrimp night today, he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Let’s go.”


	5. natsume takashi

As they approached the Fujiwara house, Natsume Takashi breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

The walk home had been largely uneventful, but still nerve-wracking; he always forgot just how disconcerting it was _not_ to see the occasional youkai on the side of the road or peeking out at him from around a corner.

It made the quiet streets of the town feel even emptier. Weird as it might sound, a kappa snoozing under the trees, ant-sized youkai crossing puddles in leaf-boats, or the mid-ranks running across the street like a traffic hazard – they were just as much a sign of things running their course in peace and quiet as an elderly neighbor lady with a bag of groceries, or a cat stretched along the fence, soaking up the sun. With them all missing, Takashi couldn’t relax; the silence made him constantly watch for something big and dangerous enough to have scared all the smaller youkai away.

This wasn’t quite like the times he’d lost his sight completely – he’d caught a glance of _something_ out of the corner of his eye not long after they left the temple, and a misplaced shadow a few blocks earlier – but that only served to put him more on edge.

He also kept catching glimpses of pale hair out of the corner of his eye and wondering who was there. Though this must be even more strange for Tanuma; at least Takashi had had the experience of seeing someone else impersonate him before.  And he had to admit, Tanuma was doing a far better job of “acting like” him than Sensei ever had.

… Aside from gawking at what had to be every minor youkai they passed. At least he didn’t do so too obviously, and it wasn’t like Takashi could blame him. It had taken him many years to learn how not to react to everything he saw. (Most of the time.)

Their hands bumped as they both reached for the door to the house at the same time. They shared an embarrassed grin, and Takashi withdrew to let Tanuma open it.

“I’m –” he started, but the word died in his throat.  

He had to remember. Right now _he wasn’t Natsume Takashi_.

“I’m home!” Tanuma called, shooting him a sympathetic look.

“Welcome back!” echoed from the kitchen, followed almost immediately by Touko-san herself, wiping her hands off on a towel. Her face glowed as she reached to hug Natsume, her embrace enveloping him in familiar warmth even in this unfamiliar body. “Kaname-kun, I’m so glad you decided to come over!”

Takashi gulped down the words that rose in his throat unbidden, and stepped back with a nod, hoping to hide his expression. “Thank you for your hospitality, Fujiwara-san.”

“Ah, I told you to call me Touko-san,” she said with a laugh as she placed a hand on Takashi’s shoulder, ushering him in. “Come on in, make yourself at home.”

Taking his shoes off and neatly lining them along the wall helped him calm the nerves in his fingertips. Takashi straightened up, ready once again to be a guest in the Fujiwara’s house, and caught sight of Tanuma gracefully and easily stepping out of Touko-san’s welcome home hug. Tanuma was better at this than him, Takashi thought, or maybe it was Touko-san who was exceptionally good at making people feel at home.

Tanuma was a bit red around the cheeks, though, Takashi noticed. He hadn’t realized a blush would be so easy to see on his own face. It made him look flustered and younger than his real age, he thought critically. Tanuma caught him looking and smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his head in a very Tanuma gesture.

Takashi’s heart did a weird flip in his chest.

“Takashi-kun, why don’t you and Kaname-kun take your bags on upstairs? I’ll go turn off the stove – oh! My tempura pot!” Touko-san flailed and rushed back into the kitchen. “The table will be ready in a minute,” they heard her voice among the clattering of pots and kitchenware. “Don’t dawdle!”

“Yes, Touko-san,” they both chorused. At least that was still the same.

Takashi picked his own bag up out of habit, and shared a wry look with Tanuma, who’d just done the same thing. He shrugged, Tanuma nodded – it wasn’t like it really made a difference – and they both started up the stairs.

“Do you think,” Tanuma said thoughtfully as he dropped his bag by Takashi’s desk, “we might be the world’s worst impersonators? I mean, we keep doing small things that would give us away, if anyone was looking. If this was one of Natori-san’s dramas, we’d be the kind of villains in paper-thin disguise that even the kids in the audience could see through right away.”

Takashi pretended to give it a long hard thought, then said, “In the top three, maybe. Sensei’s the uncontested champion.”

That brought full bodied laughter out of Tanuma. Watching him slide helplessly to the floor, leaning against the desk for support, Takashi felt lighter with optimism already. This was not a drama, after all; people didn’t usually look where didn’t expect to see anything odd.

Or odder than usual, he amended, amused. For once he had to be thankful for his reputation for weirdness.

“Speaking of Ponta, didn’t you say he was fond of tempura shrimp? Let’s go downstairs before he eats all of our portions, too.”  Tanuma paused. “I should probably stop calling him that, shouldn’t I?”

“Sensei totally deserves to be called all sorts of names,” Takashi grumbled. “Touko-san calls him pet names, and so does Taki, so if you slipped and called him something other than Sensei I don’t think it would get too much attention. But to be on the safe side, try to stick to Sensei, if you can?”

Tanuma nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

Takashi grinned. “Otherwise, you were completely right – we don’t want to leave _all_ the tempura shrimp to S – to Ponta. Let’s go.”

 

 

Sensei, of course, was already there, at his place of honor at the foot of the table and possibly on his second helping. Takashi wondered if his face could get any rounder from gluttony: the food was disappearing into his mouth faster than he would have believed possible, and Takashi had thought he was done with being surprised.

“Sensei, you’ll choke,” Takashi whispered, pretending to add more food to his bowl. “And then we’ll bring you to the vet, and he’ll tell you you have to _diet_.”

Sensei gave him a magnificent shrug and dug his face deeper into the bowl. “Don’t bother me with stupid human things,” he said in a low voice. “I’m only here for food. If you forgot, I’m on a _mission_.”

Impressed (if a bit confused) by such display of work ethics from his guardian, Takashi went back to the table.

Touko-san beamed at him and offered him the biggest shrimp from the plate.

“Nyankichi loves you, Kaname-kun,” she said, delighted.

Right.

“Not as much as he loves food,” Takashi said. “This is really delicious, Touko-san.”

“Yes, it is!” Tanuma hastily agreed.

Touko-san’s smile brightened. “Then please, have more. You’re both far too skinny.”

Tanuma wasn’t that skinny, though, Takashi thought as he chewed, sneaking glances at Tanuma seated at his usual place. Now that he was actually looking at himself, Takashi noticed he looked half-transparent. And probably too girly, he remembered with a frown.  Tanuma was definitely taller and less of a stick than he was.

“You two go back to school in a few days, right?” Touko-san was also looking at them, elbows propped on the table.  “Have you thought of anything fun to do until then?”

Tanuma, thankfully, responded as naturally as possible. “Probably finish the rest of our homework. And then spoil Sensei rotten with a trip to Nanatsujiya. If he behaves himself,” he added with a stern look, pointing his chopsticks to the corner.

Sensei, of course, perked up at that idea, clearly ignoring the possibility that Tanuma hadn’t meant his offer. Although if he did help them swap back into their own bodies before they had to return to school – well, then Nanatsujiya would be a well-deserved reward.

 

 

They had returned to his room, stretched out on two futons and peacefully trying to breathe around their full stomachs (Touko-san’s tempura was definitely world-class), when Takashi told himself to stop putting off the inevitable.

“Tanuma, there is something I have to tell you,” he started, determined to get it out before he could lose confidence. “Though I can’t tell you everything, and I hope – I ask you to understand.”

Tanuma flipped himself over on the futon, grunting with effort, and propped himself on his elbows.

“I’m listening,” he said. Tanuma’s straight, calm gaze was comforting and familiar – so much that it wasn’t even important, for a moment, that Takashi was seeing it on his own face.

Takashi would never understand how Tanuma could have so much composure and courage – enough to lend him some, on occasion. (When he wasn’t being terrifyingly reckless, of course.)

Nerves a bit settled, he continued, “You may remember, I once told you – there is something precious I have, left by my grandmother.”

“Natsume Reiko, right?”

Takashi gulped and nodded. Tanuma and Reiko-san were from different parts of his life, and purposefully converging them was – scary.

“And you don’t want to talk about it,” said Tanuma.

“I don’t, and I wouldn’t have,” Takashi admitted, miserably. “It is dangerous, and even rumors of it have been enough to cause grief. It’s just that I’m afraid –” terrified, and upset that he can’t come up with anything better than to expose Tanuma to _more_ danger “– I’m afraid, if I tell you, if the word gets out that you know about it after we’re back to normal, youkai will start coming after you, too.”

“But you think it’s something that I should know, because of – the current situation.”

Takashi took a deep breath. “Yes. They might approach you about it, thinking you’re me.”

“ _They_ – the youkai?”

Takashi nodded – the youkai, at this point, were not the only ones who knew of the yuujinchou, but that wasn’t important right now. Tanuma only needed to know enough to fend off the immediate danger.

He didn’t want to think about lying to Natori-san even more, but he would figure it out later, if he had to.

“You will know it, if they come asking for their names.” The next part was harder to get out. “Or for the yuujinchou.”

Takashi tensed, expecting questions. None came. Tanuma was looking at him, steady and trusting and completely undeserving to be made to share this burden.

“The important thing is – you don’t have to deal with it. They might plead and moan and grumble and threaten, sometimes, but that’s not your problem.”

“ _Can_ I help? What if – if there was no danger or cost, I could do something to help them?”

A wave of churning emotions rose in Takashi’s chest, but he pushed it down, terrified, and blindly refused to take a closer look at it.

“Please don’t. This is what I’m asking you to do. Listen to them, if you must, but ask them to come back later. I’ll – deal with it myself, afterwards.”

“Won’t they get angry? Will that not be inviting more trouble?”

That was the kind of question Tanuma had every right to ask, of course. It was also one that pained Takashi to answer.

“That’s not impossible,” he admitted. “But if that happens, we’ll need to rely on Sensei, until I’m back to myself. He is my bodyguard, and his sloppy habits aside, he has the power to protect us.”

Tanuma kept looking at him, and failed to be terrified, and never judged Takashi for any of this.

“So I just send them away, then?” he said simply. “Any excuse works?”

Relieved, Takashi nodded several times. “Any excuse, really. They don’t usually have a good grasp on what works for humans, and those willing to come back later should listen to you.”

He really, really hoped they’d be willing to come back later.

(He hoped none of them would come at all. He doubted he’d be that lucky.)

“Alright, I can do that,” said Tanuma, and flopped back on the futon. He was looking sideways at Takashi now, smiling. “I mean, Natori-san probably knows more about human teenagers than most youkai, and we convinced him to meet us later anyway, right?”

Takashi hid his face in his pillow, overwhelmed by both gratitude and fear. He was tired, even though they hadn’t done much today, but he wondered how long it would take for sleep to come. Even without worrying about Tanuma, looking at every shadow waiting for it to move on its own accord made his bedroom a strange, shaky new ground. He had felt safer in the Yatsuhara forest at night.

The blankets rustled around them as Tanuma settled down to sleep. Takashi was still being overwhelmed into his pillow, so he didn’t expect to feel a warm hand land over his.

“Natsume, please try to get some sleep,” Tanuma said, holding his hand reassuringly. “I promise I won’t do anything reckless, and I’m here if you start wondering if anyone is skulking nearby. Just wake me up.”

Helpless to say anything, Takashi just squeezed his fingers tightly.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, not taking his face off the pillow. “Yeah.”

He didn’t let go of the hand either.


	6. natori shuuichi

The unmistakable sound of someone politely clearing their throat from his doorway broke Shuuichi’s concentration. Again.

“Yes?” he asked, tired. That he didn’t say anything else was a testament to his patience.

“I apologize terribly for disturbing you,” said a middle-aged man as he kowtowed into the room. “But an urgent matter requires your attention.”

Shuuichi’s heart went cold. Matoba household emergencies were right at the top of the list of things he didn’t want to deal with. The list Matoba  _ had _ given him was plenty long already. 

“What is it?”

“The old Kamizawa property renovation,” the man said, pursing his lips solemnly.  “The contractors wished to know whether they should proceed with aged bamboo or pine wood panels. Samples 34 and 67 from the catalogue that I left with you earlier. Bookmarked,” he added helpfully.

“Bookmarked,” Shuuichi repeated, flat. He made an educated guess that this hadn’t been one of Matoba’s top priorities for a while, either. “I’ll take a look, and get back to you soon,” he said. Hopefully  _ after _ they figured out how to switch back. “Meanwhile, why don’t you run a cost comparison for each option? You are in charge of this project,” he said, enjoying how the look of terror settled onto the man’s face, “and your expertise will be taken into account.”

The man meekly nodded ― evidently, he had run out of questions to ask. 

Shuuichi smiled with the feeling of a job well done. 

Once the door closed behind the man, Shuuichi went back to looking at his notes. 

Matoba’s laundry list for the day didn’t look unmanageable: a few meetings he had marked down as “be present, do not commit to anything”, which Shuuichi felt confident he could pull off; one or two appointments that he had only a vague idea how he would “listen and assess and do not let them step out of line” but was ready to try (if Matoba didn’t want to give him clearer pointers it would be his fault entirely if the end result was less than satisfactory); and a few names jotted down under “intimidate”.

(Nanase-san had been given her own category: “avoid if you can, prioritize if you can’t”. Shuuichi agreed with the assessment wholeheartedly.) 

The last was a short list of names of young exorcists, one of whom was likely to have been the spell-caster from the day before. They had agreed to divert attention from the spell-caster by pressing him for more information along with several other people, and if Shuuichi suspected Matoba had devised this plan to cover up the fact couldn’t be bothered to match a name to the face, the logic of the move did not allow him to call him out on it.

The problem did not lie in the plan itself. The problem, he was coming to find, was finishing any one task without being bloody interrupted with state emergencies like interior design. 

“Catalogue sample 37,” Shuuichi grumbled under his breath. 

A heavy desk clock told him he only had a few hours until his next scheduled meeting. Just about enough time to squeeze in the meetings with the greenhorns, but only if he sent out the invitations now ― and if they weren’t the sort to ignore summons from the Matoba head.

Shuuichi closed his eyes, took a long breath to calm the jitters.

Word for word, he repeated the incantation Matoba had shared with him.

When a purple blob rose from the floor and resolved itself into a droopy human shape, only half of Shuuichi’s mind felt relief that the spell had worked seamlessly. The other part of him felt uncomfortable and vaguely disgusted.

“Matoba-sama ― oh, my apologies, I didn’t realize you were busy.” A head popped into his door and disappeared just as quickly; Shuuichi didn’t even bother to acknowledge the interruption, his eyes still trained on the shiki.

“Have someone summon these people for me,” he ordered the shiki, handing it a scrap of paper. “Individual meetings, the usual arrangements. Today.”

The blob nodded, the paper disappearing into its … flesh? and sunk bank into the floor.

Shuuichi fought down the urge to wipe his hands. Unbidden, an image of Urihime and Sasago, squabbling noisily came into his mind, and he pushed that away as well. He hadn’t thought he’d ever miss servants who questioned his every order and would volunteer to do things he didn’t ask for, but it was hard not to compare.

He had brought up the shiki in yesterday’s conversation with Matoba, who had been curious to hear that he had not been able to see or summon any of his. After some deliberation and minor experimentation, they had agreed that it was likely that while their powers had remained with the corresponding bodies, shiki bonds were a more complex case. Shiki were bound by their contracts, after all, and if they didn’t manifest if the summons didn’t come from the contract holder, that would only make sense given the nature of the relationship.

At least, that had been Matoba’s suggested explanation, and while Shuuichi didn’t consider him the biggest expert in youkai shiki, he didn’t have a better theory of his own. 

He told himself not to dwell on it ― or the fact that his inner voice sounded an awful lot like Hiiragi’s.

He shook his head, and turned his attention back to the desk. Might as well see if he could make a dent in the pile of “to sign” papers and scrolls, helpfully mentioned by Matoba as “good to sign if you see Nanase’s signature on it”, before he inevitably got interrupted again. 

  
  


Some time and solicitors for his opinion on various subjects later, the shiki construct rose back out of the floor and extruded a long boneless limb, holding several short notes. Shuuichi flipped through them ― acceptances all, and it looked like he would be able to fit them all in before his next meeting. Good. 

When the Matoba clan said jump, most exorcists just asked how high. Business as usual.

The first person to arrive was the one that Shuuichi had been most certain wasn’t the garden conspirator: the name sounded familiar enough that they must have been introduced at some point, and he was fairly certain the voice he had heard was no one he had ever met.

“Aozaka-san, come in,” Shuuichi said, gesturing toward the chair on the other side of the desk. 

The other man took a seat. He looked only a year or two out of high school, with dark hair he’d clearly recently started growing out (probably in admiration of Matoba, Shuuichi thought uncharitably), and a respectful, but uncowed gaze. “I appreciate your invitation, Matoba-sama,” he said. “Is there something I can do for you?” 

“You have shown an interest in joining the Matoba clan,” he said. He almost reached up to adjust his glasses, but thankfully remembered he didn’t have any before his fingers could do more than twitch.  The eyepatch had been … concerningly easy to accustom himself to; he liked to think it was his professional familiarity with a variety of uncomfortable props.  “However, as you are well aware, we are not a clan that can afford to take on charity cases.” 

Aozaka’s spine straightened. “I have no intention ―” he began stiffly.

Shuuichi cut him off. “Your power levels are not bad.” There was some cosmic irony in delivering these lines he remembered Matoba saying, years ago. “However, raw power alone is not enough. While the clan appreciates individual ambition, it is not prioritized over loyalty to the house.”

He paused to let the implication sink in. The thinly veiled compliment would work well against people with inflated egos, and Shuuichi was curious to see if Aozaka would rise to the bait.

“So you want a test of loyalty,” Aozaka said.

“A demonstration, rather.” Shuuichi didn’t bother to hide his smile. The younger exorcist definitely had potential. “This is not some Western fairy tale, with me playing the witch handing out quests to prove your worth.” Unbidden, an image of Matoba with a poisoned red apple cradled in his pale hands rose in Shuuichi’s brain, and he hastened to squash it before it ruined his performance.

Aozaka shifted forward in his seat. “What sort of demonstration did you have in mind?” 

“Perhaps ― I believe when we spoke before, you mentioned your family possessed some specialized binding spells?” It was a good guess as any: most old families passed one or two binding spells down from generation to generation, modified to employ the family power to the fullest extent.

Suspicion crossed Aozaka’s face. Good. “Yes?” 

“Then surely you would not mind sharing ―” 

He stood abruptly. “My apologies for my rudeness, Matoba-sama, but my inheritance is not for sale.” 

“An inheritance that will do you no good once your family dies out,” Shuuichi said sharply, forgetting for a moment the role he played. His family had been lucky ― for certain values of luck that he felt sure neither his father nor grandfather would agree with ― but many of the other old, fallen houses were not. 

“I know,” Aozaka said. “But I am not yet willing to throw my family pride away in fear of a future that may never come.” He inclined his head. “I apologize for wasting your time.” 

Shuuichi didn’t bother to try to change Aozaka’s mind as he left.  He was more familiar than he liked to admit with that stubborn pride, too. 

Perhaps, once he had returned to his own body ― 

But that was another thought for later. “Escort the next candidate in when he arrives,” he told the man standing near the door. He bowed and withdrew.  

Ordering people around came treacherously easy; a privilege in some ways more difficult to come to terms with than the disparities in their power levels. The new sharpness to his sight didn’t stand out during interactions with people, but when observing the household shiki he felt that he could see more details than usual, the picture gaining depth and texture where he had only been able to distinguish color before.

A knock at the door. “Come in,” he said. 

The man who entered ― Noda-san ― looked neither familiar nor remarkable in any way. “Matoba-sama, thank you for seeing me again.” 

The voice, however. The voice, Shuuichi remembered.

“I believe we have a conversation to finish,” Shuuichi smiled, channeling an insincere shark of medium size and lethality. He had no qualms about opening the conversation with a blatant lie ― Matoba had shut Noda down pretty clearly, but if the man believed there was something to follow up on, so they would ― but on Shuuichi’s terms.

“Matoba-sama?” Noda had a pretty good control over his expressions ― his face didn’t give much away.

Shuuichi could still work with that. 

“Let me be straightforward,” said Shuuichi, speaking for the man who probably had not been straightforward once in the last ten years. “I have called you here to discuss the spell you showed me two days ago.”

A momentary clenching of fists, before the man clearly willed them to lay relaxed along his body. “What about it?”

“And your interest in joining the clan,” Shuuichi continued, as if he had heard no question. “Those two are not, in fact, unrelated.”

Noda gave him a polite, puzzled look. “Why, yes, I was trying to make a case, if you remember.”

Shuuichi leaned back a little in his chair. “You do have some potential,” he said dismissively. “But if that alone was enough to join the clan, we’d have stacked people to the ceiling by now.”

“I assume the threshold is high, yes,” Noda said. He didn’t look like a man put off by the idea of jumping through hoops.

“A willingness to prioritize the interests of the clan above your own is another quality we like to look at,” Shuuichi said, feeling very much like a character in a mafia movie by now, although the setting was distressingly lacking in chiaroscuro and smoke rings drifting to the ceiling. The clean, simple lines of Matoba’s workroom and faint smell of wood and paper permeating the place didn’t quite have the same noir ambience.

“What would you like me to do?” Noda said, not missing a beat.

“Hand in that spell, for starters.” 

Noda raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said it was worthless?” 

“Your attempt to employ it was,” Shuuichi said mildly. “That’s not quite the same thing, is it.”

“It’s hard to argue with you,” Noda gave a very convincing performance of an easy, no-offense-taken laugh. “Only to be expected from the Matoba clan head, I guess.” He reached into his inner pocket and pulled a folded piece of paper out of it.

“You don’t seem very surprised that it didn’t work,” Shuuichi said, accepting the paper. “Weren’t you concerned about the consequences? You could have been permanently banned from exorcist circles for an audacious attempt like that.”

As far as callouts went, Shuuichi admitted it was unfortunately vague, but he worked with what he had. And he had the ace in his pocket of actually knowing what the spell did, which Noda wouldn’t realize.

But Noda had no interest in playing coy, turned out. “I guess you could say I was testing my potential employer. Screening works both ways, doesn’t it? Now I know for sure why the Matoba clan is considered the best ―” Shuuichi successfully kept a neutral face at that “― and now I want to be a part of it even more.”

Shuuichi unfolded the paper and gave it a cursory scan.  The chant appeared to match with his recollections, and the diagram seemed complete as well. He’d have to ask Matoba if he had seen it, since from behind the fountain Shuuichi hadn’t even realized there was a spell circle component. 

He lazily re-folded the paper and tossed it on top of the “already signed off by Nanase-san” pile. It wouldn’t do to appear  _ too _ interested, after all. “I will take that under consideration,” he said. A gesture towards the door. “I will let you know regarding next steps, should we choose to pursue this.” 

Noda stood, and bowed. “I look forward to hearing from you.” 

Shuuichi let him almost reach the door.  “Ah,” he said, as an afterthought. “Did you have a chance to ask someone for a scroll on spell basics? That offer, at least, is still open.” He smiled with open condescension. “Not taking the advice of a prospective employer could look dreadfully neglectful.” 

“I will be sure to do so,” Noda said smoothly. “I appreciate the consideration.” 

Only once the other man was long gone did Shuuichi allow himself to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. He carefully re-folded the paper and tucked it into his kimono. Hopefully, further examination would net some clues as to just what had happened and how they could fix this. 

Meanwhile …

Someone poked their head in. “My apologies Matoba-sama, but the monthly budget ―” 

“Has Nanase-san approved it yet?” Shuuichi asked. Matoba  _ had _ at least thought to warn him about this one. 

“... No?” 

He smiled, in proper Matoba fashion. “Then I would suggest talking to her first.” 

“Yes, Matoba-sama.” 

“And have the next candidate come to my office when he arrives.” 

“Yes, Matoba-sama.” 

Shuuichi suppressed another sigh.

  
  


By the time his last appointment ― rather, the last on Matoba’s list; Shuuichi would have to bring up everything that  _ hadn’t _ been on the list later, because as it stood Matoba’s calendar had better odds of killing him than any curse ― drew to an end, Shuuichi’s head was buzzing with far too much information about the Matoba household. And not even the kind he could use; at least, if there existed a creative way to leverage his newfound knowledge of the Matoba clan’s furniture expenditures, he was too tired to see it now.

If he was lucky, he could use the remaining time for himself: he didn’t really like the uncertainty that came with the increase in his power. He wasn’t planning on any grand magical escapades ― by mutual agreement, they both planned to keep that to a minimum until they at least established how long it would take them to swap back ― but if he was suddenly put in a situation where there was no way but to fend for himself, or demonstrate some spellwork expected of him, he would like to go prepared. Even if preparation meant understanding his limitations in wielding Matoba’s power.

He wasn’t lucky, however. 

A knock interrupted him before he could so much as move a step away from his desk.

Shuuichi silently vowed that if this was an ikebana-in-the-big-hall kind of emergency, he would  dismiss them on sight. And he wouldn’t even care if that counted as abuse of power.

The door slid open to let in a man well into his fifties, the years lending his hair silver wisps and his speech a quality of advice.  He wore a business suit, and carried a thick manila envelope under one arm. 

“Matoba-sama, I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me,” the man said. 

Shuuichi wondered if Matoba got as tired of that phrase as he did. It had been less than a day, and he already wanted to shake everyone entering the office and tell them to  _ get to the point or get out _ . 

Instead, he made a pleasantly non-committal noise. He wasn’t an actor for nothing. 

The man took the envelope from under his arm. It looked even thicker now, and Shuuichi could feel his vision blur with exhaustion. His desk was buried in papers already, and he had no idea whether these could be quietly filed in one of the multiple ‘punt to Nanase-san’ stacks. 

“I’ve brought the annual contract renewals for your sign-off, as requested. I trust you will find everything in order ― all of our key clients have expressed their desire to continue exploring a mutually beneficial relationship with us, and I have heard rumors that Representative Toyoda may also be interested in engaging our services.” 

Representative ― from the Diet? So the man must be a go-between for the jobs the Matoba clan did for the government.  Very interesting.  (And impressive, he had to admit ― he hadn’t realized Matoba had so  _ many _ government contracts, or as high as the  _ national parliament _ .) 

“I see,” he said, careful to sound vaguely approving. 

“I would be happy to set up a meeting for the two of you,” the man said. “He seemed greatly interested in seeing you in person.” 

“Is this going to be an introductory arrangement, or should I come prepared for something specific?” Shuuichi failed to care that he was shamelessly fishing for information ― not after spending the day with renovation catalogues. 

The man’s expression stoically conveyed aversion to any direct discussion. “Perhaps not right now. We rely on your discretion and understanding of the delicacy of such matters.”

“Of course,” Shuuichi said. “Please go ahead and set the meeting up ― for next week, perhaps?” 

If this entire mess wasn’t long over by then, well ― that was one meeting he was actually looking forward to.

Good thing he didn’t chase this guy out right away.

The man inclined his head. “I will. I appreciate that.” He withdrew the papers from the envelope.  “And here are the finalized contract drafts.” 

Shuuichi took the papers, eyed his desk briefly, and added them to the smallest stack with a mental shrug. “I will be sure to take a look.” After he checked with Matoba whether they were something he could pawn off on Nanase-san. 

He looked up to see the man … almost hovering. “Is there anything else?” he asked. 

The man cleared his throat, visibly relieved to be asked that. “In fact, there is.” 

Shuuichi tried for politely inquisitive. 

“It has not escaped my attention that you, ah, have not yet secured the succession of the Matoba clan.”

Oh no. 

“If I may be so forward, my cousin’s daughter is near to your age, Matoba-sama.” 

_ Oh no _ . 

“She’s quite intelligent ― just finishing up her degree in political science ― and rather pretty as well, though of course I may be biased.” The man continued with the momentum of a train headed downhill. “I would be happy to introduce the two of you, if you would like?” He conjured another manila envelope from the expanses of his suit and placed it carefully on Shuuichi’s desk.

Somewhere at the bottom of the bottomless well of horror that opened up inside Shuuichi, a small voice told him that it wasn’t his own hand in marriage that was being sought. 

That voice was quickly drowned out all the same.

“Let me … get back to you on that,” he said, hopefully more calmly than he felt. 

The man bowed. “Of course.” And  _ finally _ turned to leave. 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Shuuichi slumped in the chair. 

He wasn’t getting paid  _ nearly _ enough for this. 

He wasn’t getting paid _ at all. _


	7. matoba seiji

The body lay crumpled on the floor, motionless like a broken doll, as a violent red stain blossomed on his crisp white shirt. An expensive cigar rolled out of the man’s now-limp hand and across the floor, until it hit another pair of shoes and stopped.

Seiji crouched over him, satisfied, as the knife in his hand dripped red, tracing dark trails across his fingers.

A heavy drop slid off the sharp edge and almost lazily fell through the air, splattering brightly on the polished wooden floor.

Seiji wrapped the man’s fingers around the knife’s handle and straightened up to observe the picture. Finding it to his satisfaction, he put his hands into his pockets, fully aware of the stains they’d leave against the light material of the suit, and turned to leave the room.

The cigar crunched under the sole of his polished shoe, and he made no effort to hide his darkly triumphant smile.

“CUT!” yelled the director. He ran towards him, waving a stack of papers wildly about his head. “Natori-san, that was a remarkable performance, _remarkable_!” He practically dragged Seiji’s hand out of his pocket to shake it, either not noticing or failing to care about the fake blood smeared on it. “We won’t be needing to retake any of the scenes in the mansion – Yusuke-san, you got all of it on the cameras, didn’t you? Excellent, most excellent! – because the chemistry was insane!”

Seiji did his best not to grin. “It’s my pleasure,” he said. “And my job, of course,” he added after a short moment of consideration. He had to admit, he was a bit surprised at just how smoothly it had gone. He was not a stranger to putting on a performance for an audience’s benefit, but he had expected there to be a … greater gap between that and the professional roles Shuuichi-san engaged in for a living.

Of course, it was hardly the first time he’d crouched beside a body.

Usually they were a great deal less substantial, however.

“I could not have done it without Endou-san’s expert aid,” he added smoothly, gesturing towards his ‘victim’, who had stood and walked over to chat with one of the secondary actresses who, if he remembered the schedule right, would be appearing in the next scene. Both looked towards him, and the actress waved. He smiled brightly and waved back.

“And, of course, the help of the props department.” He held out a hand to admire the fake blood traces, now drying to a distinctly un-blood-like color.

The director appeared to notice for the first time that some had transferred to his own hand, too.  He pulled out a handkerchief and swiftly wiped his fingers. “Ah, yes – on that note, why don’t you head back to the make-up room and get cleaned up?”

“Of course.” Luckily, Shuuichi-san’s instructions had included a rough map of the set, so he had had no problem finding it earlier.

The director turned away.  “All right, people, next scene!”

  


Shuuichi-san’s makeup room was quiet after the bustle of the set, and subtly warded. Not as strongly as Seiji would have preferred – especially given that he suspected that Shuuichi-san occasionally napped on the small couch wedged into one corner of the room – but he understood the difficulty of warding what was effectively a semi-public place.  

He washed off the fake blood at the sink in the small attached bathroom, then splashed water on his face.  The shirt, he didn’t bother with – his next scene would occur in what the script had marked down as “high end restaurant, evening”, so likely a change of clothes was coming. Probably another expensive three-piece suit; his character was not a casual dresser, Seiji thought with a smile, regardless of whether he was committing to social engagements or murder.

The drama they were currently filming was a modern-day retelling of what he would only describe as _Count of Monte Cristo_ meets _Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ : a young socialite makes his way into the upper crust, charming the ladies and leaving behind him a trail of dead bodies, strung together in a gruesome, convoluted revenge plot that was secretly all about his ruined family fortune. Not too bad, for drama material: plenty of romance and violence against the backdrop of expensively furnished rooms. Shuuichi-san’s participation would secure the audience’s interest: it had been sound business decision, to invite someone charismatic enough to pull off this sort of protagonist.

“Oh, Natori-san, you’re here already?” A young woman entered the room – the make-up artist who had prepared him for the previous scene. “I hope you didn’t have to wait long, I was just finishing with Hayashi-san.”

Seiji obligingly drifted into the chair facing a large mirror. He squinted slightly as the woman turned on the chain of small, bright lights surrounding the mirror.

Noticing his reaction, she giggled. “Sorry, it’s a bit dark in here otherwise. You can just close your eyes and relax! But you already know that, ahh – sorry, sorry, a professional of your level doesn’t need to be told anything, haha, especially not for the second time today. Sorry, I guess I’m a bit nervous still.”

Assuming the girl was flustered by Shuuichi-san’s presence, Seiji gave her his best reassuring smile.

She pretended to flinch away and cover her eyes. “Now the room is too bright even for me, Natori-san!”

Seiji coughed a quiet laugh, surprising himself, then schooled his – Shuuichi-san’s – features back to pleasant. “Better?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you,” she said cheerfully. “Now, close your eyes, please – I’ll lay down the foundation, it will be quicker like that.”

Seiji obliged, leaning back in the chair. The girl’s hands were light and quick on his face, and it felt novel not to worry about the touch. Shuuichi-san’s face bore no scars, and it felt fitting to use that as an asset.

“You can open your eyes now, if you want,” the girl chirped some time later. Seiji complied, still curious to see the television magic in the making. Earlier in the day, for the scene of the murder, the girl had laid shadows and highlights artfully on Shuuichi-san’s face, making it sharper and angular and more predatory. This time around, she was readying him up for what had to be a more intimate scene, one with closeups of candlelight catching in artfully arranged strands of golden hair and playing off Shuuichi-san’s face. A trademark romantic scene.

“How does it look?” she asked, a bit hesitantly.

“I am impressed,” Seiji said honestly. He would not have been so straightforward if he were himself, but luckily, it seemed like the sort of thing that Shuuichi-san would say.

The girl blushed. “I – um, I’m only here for the rest of the week,” she said. “But if you ever need makeup advice or, um, just a friendly chat over coffee, feel free to give me a call?”  She scribbled a number on a scrap of paper lying nearby, and handed it to Seiji. “Sorry, I’ve got to run now – I’m supposed to fix Takada-san next.”

She disappeared out the door, leaving Seiji sitting there, looking at the scrap of paper in his hand.

After a moment, he shrugged and tucked it into his pocket.

  


Seiji clasped Hayashi-san passionately to his chest – at least, it was his best attempt at what he thought passionate clasping was supposed to look like.  She was very close.

“Stay, please,” he implored her. “I don’t want you to leave tonight.”

Tears gathered in the corners of his co-star’s eyes, her face a study in conflicting desires. “I –”

“CUT!”

Seiji let her go and stepped away, looking towards the director.

Who looked almost as distraught as his co-star had.  “Natori-san, what happened?  You’re supposed to be pleading with Hayashi-san, not _threatening_ her.”

Seiji tilted his head to the side. Threatening was the last thing he was trying to be – he might not be a professional actor, but the script was pretty clear in that regard: his character was genuinely popular with the ladies – but he assumed the crew could tell better, so there was no point in arguing. “Do we want to try another take?”

“Maybe we should catch a short break?” Hayashi-san suggested. She nudged him playfully; Seiji did his best to refrain from reacting. “You should really relax, too.  You were so _stiff_ , just now.  You should know by now I don’t bite.” She winked. “Unless you’re into that, of course.”

Seiji manfully refrained from rubbing at his sides where her elbow must have left a bruise, and recalled with painful clarity the scribbly notes from Shuuichi-san’s diary. Next to Hayashi-san’s name he had laconically put “bites”; Seiji had presumed it meant her vitriol, but this potentially put things into a different light.

He must have held the pause for too long, because Hayashi-san rolled her eyes. “I’m joking, Natori, sheesh. If I knew it was gonna make you even _more_ tense I’d have tried something else. Here, walk with me, I want a cappuccino.” Not waiting for Seiji even to nod, she grabbed him by the elbow and started towing him towards the small coffee shop in the lobby. For a willowy woman with sharp elbows, she had a surprising amount of strength.

Once they had seated themselves at a precariously balanced tiny round table – “a cappuccino for me, and sparkling water for my handsome companion” – she put her coffee cup down like the excuse it was and gave him a disturbingly calculating look.

“So tell me, what’s on your mind today?”

Seiji contemplated giving her a dazzling smile, but gave the idea up as unlikely to work against her. If Shuuichi-san was close enough to her that she would notice a change, then he should have warned Seiji about that, he thought, displeased.

Instead, he shrugged.

“It can’t have been me,” continued Hayashi-san critically. “I’m damn glorious and attractive and, last I checked, still voted the hottest actress of the year by Asahi Shinbun readership.”

She flipped her glossy black hair over her shoulder to punctuate her statement – in an attempt to cheer him up, Seiji could tell, not to intimidate. “And I’m the #1 actor and most eligible bachelor,” he reminded her. Shuuichi-san’s notes hadn’t mentioned that, but Seiji was not so disconnected from popular culture that he could have avoided learning about it.

“Exactly! So why are you suddenly acting like a chess club member roped into a school play, then?”

“I am not,” Seiji said, wounded. He thought his performance earlier had gone quite well.

“You are too! Well, not all of today – that murder scene was downright creepy, you should tell me how you amped that up! – but our scene together just now? That was _embarrassing_.”

Seiji chewed on his words. “What can I do better?” he said eventually. It didn’t feel too precarious to ask her – it did seem like Shuuchi-san had cultivated some sort of partnership with her, and she appeared invested in the end result.

“If I hadn’t known you since your days with _A Thousand Roses_ , I’d have asked who you are and what you did with Natori Shuuichi,” she shook her head. Seiji stilled, but she didn’t seem to care. “Those are exactly the sort of scenes that you could always pull off in your sleep! And on the set in between.” Seiji involuntarily found himself exchanging amused knowing glances with her. “Sure, we all have our strong points, and you’ve learned a lot on the job too – seriously, tell me about the creepy later – but you’ve never had a problem with a standard issue romance!”

Seiji winced. There was no making up for lack of practice, apparently.

“Did you just wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Hayashi-san asked, taking mercy on him.

Seiji had woken up in the wrong bed entirely, but he felt no obligation to share _that_ with her. “Probably. Something like that,” he said vaguely.

She rolled her eyes. “I guess even the hottest bachelors are allowed days like that. Just don’t make a habit out of it.”

“I don’t make a habit of failure,” Seiji bristled. Which was true – for himself and Shuuichi-san both.

She patted his hand, unimpressed. “I know, but the occasional reminder doesn’t hurt.” She gave him another of her scrutinizing looks while she took a sip of coffee and daintily pressed a crisp napkin against her lips. “Tell you what. Let me freshen up a bit, and then we’ll talk to the director. I’ll tell him to ride the wave that’s going well today, and instead of re-taking the restaurant scene we can resume filming on the one after that.”

Which Seiji remembered being an action scene: his character receives a phonecall and makes a hasty retreat, leaving his forlorn companion to finish dinner alone while he chases his nemesis across the city.

Her suggestion was not unwelcome. That scene should be well within his abilities; he was also not unfamiliar with long chases.

“I’d appreciate that,” he said. Hayashi-san snorted, which mysteriously failed to compromise her ladylike manner, and headed off to the bathroom.

Seiji turned his water bottle idly in his hands. It was slippery with cool condensation on the thick glass. Seiji thought about pressing it to his temple, but didn’t want to ruin the makeup before it was due for another touch-up.

He was tired, but somehow, it was a good kind of exhaustion, pleasant like the ache of his muscles and empty calm of his mind after several hours in the shooting range. If with more fuss about proper dress than even classic archery, Seiji smiled to himself.

A gust of wind toppled the napkin holder on the table. Seiji turned to look behind him – probably the main doors opening, letting in a draft. There was no one at the entrance, so Seiji shrugged and turned back.

Among the scattered napkins rested a piece of paper cut out in the rough shape of a bird. On it, a few inkstrokes – a time and place, he assumed. No name or signature to it.

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” Seiji said mildly, picking it up and folding it in two before putting it in his pocket.

“What’s interesting?” Hayashi-san’s voice reached him from the side. She had returned quicker than he’d expected. “Another number scrawled in red lipstick on a napkin? Surely that’s not interesting to you at this point.”

Seiji arched his eyebrow, amused. “You’re only saying that because no one is shoving them in your pocket.”

“Well of course. That would be awfully crude.” Hayashi-san patted him on the shoulder. “I should let capable men like yourself handle all the weight of pretty girls’ attention, while I try to think of where to pawn off another bouquet.”

That much was true: Seiji had witnessed at least two separate instances today when Hayashi-san gracefully accepted flowers and later stealthily deposited them off in the communal areas.

She looked at him, sharp and biting, and smiled back, finding whatever it was she saw in his face to her satisfaction. “You know, I’d slip you my number so that you could give me a call and cry into my shoulder about whatever’s troubling you,” she said conversationally, “but I won’t. First of all, you have it already, and secondly, you never use your phone anyway. And it’s not like I can’t find you to give you an earful when needed. Come on, it’s time we go.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Seiji said dryly.

  


It was already close to nightfall by the time the filming wrapped up. Seiji was definitely tired now, but also not completely dissatisfied with the results. The action scene had required more retakes than he’d imagined it would, but then again, he’d also had no idea that fight scenes were orchestrated to that degree. (Just as well; his partner didn’t seem like he’d be able to hold his own in a real fight.)

Now, entering the park that the paper bird had invited him to, he carefully shoved these thoughts aside and let the pleasant mask slip off his face. For these kind of meetings he knew it was not a requirement.

“You’re late.”

His date saved him the trouble of looking for him in between poorly lit pathways. How convenient.

“I had a job to finish,” Seiji replied, not particularly interested in specifying the details. “You had something for me?”

The man huffed without much warmth in his voice. He was in his sixties, if Seiji had to make a guess. No one he remembered by name – which wasn’t very surprising, if the person was of little significance to the clan – but also not a face he’d seen around in exorcist circles, either. Shuuchi-san’s client, familiar enough to skip courtesy? Middle man?

Seiji grinned. He was curious to find out.

“Not so sure anymore,” said the man, contemptuous. “When I came here I didn’t expect to see someone so _green_.”

“What did you expect, then?” Seiji kept his smile trained on him; he’d heard his share of similar arguments in his time. He just hadn’t heard them for a while, and was surprised that Shuuichi-san still did. “Exorcism is not fine wine to get better with age. Someone must have given you my contact details for a reason.”

Seiji wasn’t fishing for an assignment, exactly. Earlier, he had agreed with Shuuichi-san that it would be wise to refrain from too much spellcasting until they at least established how long it would take them to undo the spell. Which was why Seiji didn’t care to be particularly polite with the man now.

Admittedly, he could have ignored the invitation. But when there was a possibility it could be something other than a one-time contract – well, then Seiji owed it to Shuuichi-san to find that out.

“I have a situation,” the man said eventually, breaking the suspicious silence.

“Let’s hear it, then,” Seiji smiled again, not hiding his teeth.


	8. tanuma kaname

The wind gently knocked tree branches against the window, distracting Kaname from his math homework. He glanced up and smiled at the sight of Natsume sprawled across the other futon, nose buried in a textbook.

… Yes, it was his own body. But that sprawl was unmistakable.

Kaname stretched. It had only been a few days, but he hadn’t noticed any signs that Natsume’s body was any frailer than his own, which was a reassuring thought. At least until Kaname remembered how often Natsume got sick or fell asleep in class, since that would mean that he got caught up in youkai affairs far more often than even Kaname had realized.

“Tanuma, have you done this part of the problem set yet?” he asked.

 _That_ was probably the weirdest part.  But they’d agreed that even when alone, they should stick to using each other’s names, just in case.

Natsume put his book aside. “Math? Yeah, I just finished.” He scooted over and looked over Kaname’s shoulder. “Ohhhh – yeah, I’m not sure I got that one right.”

“Explain it to me?”

Branches knocked against the window again, and Natsume looked towards it, squinting.

Kaname followed his gaze, and blinked.

“Is there –” Natsume asked hesitantly.

The youkai at the window – a bird-like wooden mask attached to flowing lavender cloth – waved one of its cloth-covered arms. “Excuse me,” it said, a bit muffled through the window, but still clearly audible. “May I come in?”

“Yes, it is,” Kaname said.  “... Do I let it in? It looks … probably harmless?”

Natsume grimaced. “You might as well.  It probably won’t go away until you do.” He hesitated, then stood. “I should probably go, in case my presence is a deterrent.”  A searching look.  “You remember … what we talked about?”

About something called a yuujinchou, and names, and youkai that might come asking for both.

Kaname nodded. He might not understand fully, but he knew what to do.

“I’ll be right outside the door, just … shout if you need me.” Natsume’s face briefly closed off.

Kaname knew _that_ face intimately. The awful, piercing knowledge that there would be no point in calling because there was nothing he could do.

No one should feel like that, least of all Natsume.

“Why not stay?” he asked impulsively, and caught Natsume’s hand as he turned to leave.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. “You said I should tell them ‘no’, right? Then what does it matter if your presence is a deterrent? Isn’t that a good thing?” He squeezed Natsume’s fingers, wordlessly telling him he wanted him to stay.

“Oh.” Natsume blinked owlishly. Kaname took it as his cue not to let Natsume dwell on his misery, so he simply tugged him back down next to him. After making sure Natsume would stay, Kaname went to open the window.

“Hello there,” he said, trying to sound like he knew what he was doing. “Come on in.”

The bird mask nodded solemnly and flowed into the room through the glass, fastidiously avoiding the open panel.

“Good evening, Natsume-dono,” it said, once carefully seated in what Kaname assumed was seiza. The lavender robes were too flowy to be sure, but whatever body the youkai possessed was giving off the impression of a courteous posture.

It didn’t seem to mind Natsume’s presence in the room either, acknowledging him with a polite nod. Natsume squinted, and hesitantly nodded back, getting the direction right. The birdface had to be fairly powerful -- normally, Kaname would have seen only a shadow, or a ripple of air.

“Good evening,” he said, politeness coming easy in a conversation with this youkai. “What brings you here?”

The birdface slowly folded in a deep bow. “Natsume-dono, I seek your help.”

“How can I help?” Kaname asked, mostly for Natsume’s benefit; he had stopped squinting at the spot where the birdface was sitting, and appeared to be trying to read the conversation by watching Kaname.

The youkai didn’t move. “I beseech you, Natsume-dono. Please return my name.” He still spoke into what had to be his knees, which Kaname found inappropriately funny. He realized he was forgetting to be scared.

“I understand your grievance,” he answered, sucked into mimicking the youkai’s style of speech. “Your request is fair.”

Natsume was still tensely hanging on his every word – and of course, seeing only half of the conversation, he had no chance to find the birdface funny. Kaname sobered at the thought and cleared his throat. The birdface has straightened up after his last words, so he continued. “I will do my best to assist you, but on one condition.”

The birdface hung its head. The gesture, while dignified, conveyed such resignation that Kaname immediately wanted to take back his words and reassure the youkai that everything would be fine.

“I understand that the world of the spirits lives by its own rules,” he said softly. “But they do not govern the human life. We have our own, that you may not always know of, or might think unimportant, but we have to abide by them. Especially when we are young.”

The birdface was listening to him, the mask cocked to the side. Taking courage in assumption that he must be saying something that the youkai could understand, Kaname continued. “Young people, like me, need to study and learn, so that they can be on equal footing once they enter the world of adults.” He gestured at the books cluttering the room. “As you can see, you caught us in preparation for that.”

Part of him couldn’t believe he was using _homework_ as an excuse for the second time – but if it had worked on Natori-san, who was to say it wouldn’t on the youkai?

The youkai gave him a solemn nod. “Younglings on the cusp of adulthood.”

A peaceful pause set in, while the birdface seemed to contemplate something. Natsume was fidgeting on his futon, clearly wanting to know what was going on, but Kaname thought it would be impolite of him now not to pay his full attention to their visitor.

“I understand, Natsume-dono,” the youkai said eventually. “How many more years do you think it will be until you are ready?”

“Years?!” Kaname exclaimed, and shot Natsume a panicked look. “It won’t – I don’t think it will take _years_. Just … maybe a few weeks? A month from now?”

Judging by how wide-eyed Natsume looked, he also hadn’t expected the negotiations to take this turn. Kaname gave him what he had hoped was a questioning look, and Natsume smiled at him, which he took as an okay for his suggestion to come back next month.

The birdface cooed thoughtfully. “The human children grow faster than ours, then. Truly mysterious, your world.” He made another deep bow then. “Thank you Natsume-dono. I shall come back in a month. You have a kind soul and will make a good human adult one day. Soon. In a month.”

Kaname opened his mouth to correct the youkai, and closed it. Maybe he should just leave it at that.

“I thank you for your understanding,” he said instead, offering a bow in return. “And I look forward to your return.”

The bird youkai was about halfway back to the window when a very familiar round white object came flying through and landed on its face.

Ponta picked himself up, shook himself off, and glared at the stunned youkai.  “What’s this?  Have you been getting involved with youkai _again_ while I was gone?”

“It’s fine, P – Sensei,” Kaname said hastily. The bird youkai sat up, one cloth-covered arm reaching for its head. “This – our visitor was just leaving.” He walked over to help the youkai up, and waved it off when it tried to bow again in thanks. “Sorry about that.  My bodyguard can get a bit boisterous.”

Ponta looked like he wasn’t sure what to get offended by first, but settled for continuing to squint at the bird youkai.

It bowed in Ponta’s direction. “I am comforted to know you have such able guardians as well.”

Ponta forgot to grumble, basking in the undeserved compliment. Kaname couldn’t help his glance towards Natsume, knowing he’d have a comment about that – but of course, he hadn’t heard.

“Thank you again, Natsume-dono.” The bird youkai drifted back through the window pane and floated off into the distance.

“Sensei, you’re back,” Natsume said. “Did you find anything out?”

“ _We_ found out plenty,” corrected a rich female voice.  

Between one blink and the next, Natsume was completely enveloped in the arms of a purple-haired woman wearing an ornate kimono. He didn’t look comfortable. But he also didn’t look surprised, so … probably they were acquainted?

“Oh, my poor Natsume, it must be such a _trial_ for you to be trapped in such an ugly, masculine body,” she proclaimed.

Kaname wasn’t sure whether to be amused or offended. He was also torn on whether he wanted to relay her words to Natsume later, even as a joke.

“... I _am_ a guy, you know.” Natsume sounded exasperated. “Normally. And Tanuma is not ugly!”

He angrily glared somewhere above his shoulder, missing the lady youkai’s face entirely.

“Natsume, you can hear her!” But not see, probably.

“Their voices are too annoying,” Natsume grumbled so completely insincerely and fondly that the lady youkai awwed and pinched his cheek – confusing Natsume, who turned his head, trying to understand what bit him.

“You two … know each other?” Tanuma hazarded.

“Oh, right – Tanuma, this is Hinoe. She was, uh … _close_ to my grandmother.”

Kaname decided he’d probably be better off not asking. “It’s nice to meet you, Hinoe.”

“Hmpf.”

“She also doesn’t really like guys,” Natsume said apologetically. “It’s nothing personal. I think.”

“Except _you_ , Natsume-kun,” Hinoe said. Kaname hadn’t thought she could squeeze Natsume any tighter, but somehow she managed it. “You’re just so much like my Reiko, I can _almost_ forgive you for being male. It’s not your fault you weren’t born a girl.”

Natsume’s _very_ long-suffering look made it clear that this was far from the first time he’d heard that.

Luckily, Kaname was saved from having to figure out what to say by two new heads popping up at the window.

“Natsume-dono!”

“Natsume-dono!”

“We heard something terrible had happened to you!”

“Very terrible!”

“We’re here to help you!”

“Yes, yes, help, help!”

Kaname glanced at Natsume, but he seemed not to have noticed the two youkai by the window: one with a face like a cow, the other with a single eye that took up most of his face. “Um, Natsume –”

“What are you idiots doing here?” Hinoe pulled just far enough away from Natsume to turn and cast a disdainful look at them.

“We wanted to help Natsume!”

“Yes, help!”

Natsume squinted towards the window.  “Mid-ranks? Is that you two?” He shifted his gaze to glare suspiciously at Ponta. “I thought you said you were going to investigate.  Did you just go out drinking? _Again_?”

" _We_ investigated,” Hinoe said pointedly. “Madara-sama helped.”

Ponta deliberately turned his back to her.

“We have your guy, Natsume,” he said, his face more smug than ever.

“Sensei!”

“We don’t, actually,” Hinoe interrupted again. “But we have collected rumors about a youkai roaming the area who sounds pretty capable of pulling a trick like that.”

“Sensei…”

Kaname bit back a smile at the display of emotions that flickered on Natsume’s face: irritation melted into joy, then settled on cranky resignation.

“How do we find it?” he asked. He didn’t have the first idea of how one went about looking for youkai, but Natsume and his merry band seemed used to it.

“He isn’t very easy to find,” said Hinoe thoughtfully, and took a drag from her pipe.

“Not easy!”

“Hard to find!”

She gave an evil eye to the mid-ranks, who covered their faces and noisily hushed each other.

“We heard that he shows up where he wants, messing with human and spirit alike, but doesn’t stay long in one place.”

“Then how are we ever going to talk to him?” Natsume visibly deflated.

“He might have a weakness that we could use,” Hinoe smiles. “Rumors agree that there are certain kinds of places he frequents.”

“They say he likes to hang around springs that produce naturally bubbly water,” Ponta butted in.

Natsume glared at him.  “You’re just trying to find something to get you drunk again.”

“I’m not,” Ponta said, haughty. “But he does!”

“Might,” Hinoe corrected. “We don’t know for sure, but sparkling water springs came up several times. And there are only a couple of them in the Yatsuhara forest.”

Kaname exchanged hopeful looks with Natsume.

“Can you show us?” Natsume asked. His gaze came closer to finding Hinoe this time.

Hinoe hugged him harder.  “For you? Of course. I’ll take you there personally!”

Ponta pointed a paw towards her accusingly. “You noisy lot aren’t taking Natsume anywhere. What kind of self-respecting villain would let himself be ambushed by you and the mid-ranks?”

“No self-respect!”

“No ambush!”

Kaname wondered if the two youkai even listened too hard for anything except a good place to chime in.

“So I’ll take them there. You lot stay.”

The mid-ranks loudly chorused their disappointment, but Ponta was unmoved.

“Fine,” Hinoe huffed. “Just as long as you bring my beloved Natsume back to me. In his _own_ beautiful body!”

 

 

“Sensei, do you really think we can lure this youkai with red bean buns from Nanatsujiya?” Natsume asked doubtfully.

“Are you doubting my information-gathering prowess?” Ponta puffed up.

“Yes! Because you obviously just went out drinking and got the others to do all the work!”

Kaname smiled as he listened to the bickering. He strolled a few feet behind them, keeping an eye on their surroundings as they made their way along a narrow road leading towards the Yatsuhara forest.

He’d almost forgotten, safely curled up in the Fujiwara house, just how much _more_ Natsume could see. In Natsume’s home, meeting his youkai friends didn’t seem much different from any human guests. Well, a bit more energetic maybe, Kaname thought with a smile. But here, it was like seeing new scenery unfold right on top of a familiar landscape: new noises and voices and faces, scuttering from under their feet (he held Natsume back before he could trample a terrified looking knot of leaves running someplace) and floating above their heads like majestic, sentient clouds.

He wondered how Natsume could bear to ignore so much _life_ , when he interacted with other humans.  

“Tanuma! Natsume!”

He turned at the familiar voice, not even stopping to think about it, and immediately cursed himself. She’d called their names so close together, hopefully she hadn’t noticed that he’d responded to the wrong one. “Hi, Taki!”

“I was coming back from the station, but then I saw you,” she said cheerily, holding up the bag in her hand as proof. “What are you two doing out here?”

She kept glancing past him, and finally Kaname hazarded a look as well – oh, Ponta. Of course.

“Um,” he said eloquently, casting a panicked glance towards Natsume. They hadn’t discussed what to do if they ran into someone they knew.

“S – Ponta claims there’s a sparkling water spring in the forest,” Natsume said. “We thought we’d go check it out.”

Taki’s eyes lit up. “That sounds like fun! Can I come too?”

Natsume cast Kaname a panicked glance. “That’s probably not the best idea,” Kaname said. “Because. Um.”

“Oh, is it a youkai thing?” Taki asked. She bit her lip and glanced at Natsume, and Kaname winced. He could guess what she was probably thinking – why involve him, then?

But she was too good a friend to say so.

“Tanuma hasn’t been possessed again, has he? You two would tell me if something like that had happened, right?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Kaname said hastily. Though, to be fair, it … actually was something like that. If the fact that they were currently possessing each other’s bodies counted for that sort of thing.

“Come on, time’s wasting,” Ponta said impatiently. He’d half-hidden behind Natsume, casting suspicious glares towards Taki.

“Stop being so rude, Sensei,” Natsume snapped.

Kaname looked between Natsume and Taki, horrified.

“What’s actually going on?” Taki asked slowly. “Unless – if you can’t tell me –”

Great, now Kaname felt even guiltier. He glanced at Natsume, who gave a sort of helpless shrug.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Kaname pleaded.

“I won’t,” Taki agreed immediately.

“I’m not … exactly … possessed,” he admitted.

“I – you mean –” Taki looked between the two of them again. “You two _swapped places_?”

Natsume nodded. “About three days ago,” he said.

Taki looked like she couldn’t decide whether she was impressed or worried. “And no one’s figured out yet? Wow… Do you know what caused it?”

“Luckily, no. The Fujiwaras just think I’m staying over for a few days since my dad’s away,” Kaname said. “Well, I as in,” he gestured helplessly towards his own body.

“And not yet,” Natsume said grimly. “There’s a youkai who we think might have done it. It’s supposed to live somewhere near that spring.”

“Oh.” Taki looked a bit deflated. “That sounds like it might be dangerous.”

“According to rumors, this youkai isn’t the sort to attack without warning,” Natsume said hastily, “so it should be fine. But …”

Taki smiled wanly. “I should stay behind anyway, right?”

Natsume nodded. “Just in case.”

Taki bit her lip, then nodded firmly.  “All right. You two be really careful, though, okay?” Kaname nodded hastily, and saw Natsume do the same. “And tell me all the details afterward. I’ll – I’ll go see if my grandfather has any notes on body swappers. Just in case.”

“Thanks, Taki.” Natsume said.

Grateful, Kaname reached out to squeeze her hand on an impulse, and then touched Natsume on the shoulder.

“Ponta’s right. We should be going. See you Monday?”

Taki smiled. “In the right bodies this time, I hope.”

 

 

The first thing they saw when they reached the clearing was someone clad in a patchwork kimono, daintily drinking spring water from a sake cup. He didn’t seem particularly concerned that half of the water was flowing back into the spring though a glaring crack in the cup.

Kaname’s first thought was, if their answer could be so easily found, what were the chances it was the right one?

But then again, what did he know about solving youkai puzzles? Maybe the spirit world didn’t operate on the same logic as in all the stories.

“Natsume, can you see him?” he whispered, just to be sure: Natsume was staring in the same direction.

“I see – something,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Not really a face, but I can tell there is someone by the spring. Is he alone?”

Kaname took a sweeping glance around to confirm there weren’t any others. “Seems so.” He hesitated. “How do you usually approach unfamiliar youkai?”

Natsume winced. “By stumbling over them, most of the time,” he admitted sheepishly. “Or having them break into the house. Or –”

“Hey, you!” Ponta barged past them, bouncing towards the spring.

“... Or that,” Natsume finished.

In one of his long hops, Ponta rose into the air – and stayed there, for one brilliant moment when he was not Ponta anymore but not yet the magnificent creature that gracefully landed on giant soft paws in his place the next moment.

“Wow,” said Kaname lamely.

Natsume looked around, his expression lost. “Sensei? Is that Sensei?” He followed Kaname’s line of sight and cocked his head, puzzled. “I can see something weird and inflated, is that how you see Sensei in his full form?”

“Inflated,” huffed majestic and magical Ponta, and in his new low voice it sounded like a beast rumbling. “That’s better than calling me fat, I guess.”

“Anyone care to join me for a drink?” The youkai by the spring, who Kaname had to admit had been completely eclipsed in his mind by Ponta’s transformation, didn’t seem particularly troubled by their invasion. “Although I’m afraid I only have one cup.” He gave it a thoughtful look, turning this way and that, and then smashed it against the nearest rock. “Here, all fixed now.” With a very self-satisfied expression he offered them four pieces of what used to be his clay cup. Kaname had his doubts that even the smallest youkai could drink from them.

And just like that, Ponta collapsed back into his normal cat form. “Is it a sake spring?” he demanded. “Is that why it’s so bubbly??”

The youkai gave him a bemused look. “No, simply sparkling water. It is quite tasty, though.” He held his hand out further. “Will you drink?”

“I’m … fine, I think,” Kaname said. He cast a helpless glance at Natsume. It was alright, wasn’t it? To refuse a youkai’s offer?

“Heh. Your loss. And your blind friend?” the youkai asked, gesturing at Natsume.  

“He can see!” Kaname protested. “... A little bit.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I will also decline,” Natsume said. He smiled at Kaname.

“If you insist,” the youkai shrugged. He closed his hands over the shards, blew lightly into the gap between his fingers, and re-opened them. The unbroken cup stood intact in his hands once more. Just as it had been before, including the immense crack down the side. “So what brings a – no, _two_ humans, isn’t it? To my spring?” He cast a glance at Ponta.  “And some sort of … cat-pig-thing?”

Ponta bristled. “We’re here to get _you_ to put these two _back_ ,” he said impatiently.

“You are the youkai who moved here recently, right?” Kaname said. It wouldn’t feel right to let Ponta accuse an innocent youkai.

“I am,” the youkai said. “What do you mean by ‘back’? They both look perfectly fine to me – aside from being human, of course. That’s downright regrettable.”

“Isn’t it obvious? _That_ idiot,” Ponta gestured toward Natsume, “should be in _that_ body.”

“And the other way around,” supplied Kaname.

The youkai made an O-shaped figure with his mouth, threw his cup up in the air and somersaulted. “What a lark!” he said, clapping his hands together. Behind him, the cup fell and shattered into pieces. Again. “What an excellent idea! Two idiots, two bodies, which one is where?”

Kaname considered protesting the ‘idiot’ label, but suspected it would be useless. “It has certainly been … an experience,” he said diplomatically. “But we’d like to be returned to our own bodies now. If you don’t mind.”

“I do! I do mind very much! That would ruin an excellent joke,” he said, tut-tutting. “But even if I was a stick in the mud – or should I say, a pig in the mud, hee hee –” he briefly glanced at Ponta, who did not appreciate the attention – “I’m afraid the situation is entirely out of my hands.”

“Can’t you reverse your own spells?” Natsume said, raising his voice. Kaname didn’t often see him like that; Natsume hardly ever allowed himself to show anger.

“You are right,” the youkai stage-whispered to Ponta, “they _are_ idiots. They can’t even tell that it isn’t my spell – hee hee, that rhymed! Would if I could!” He somersaulted slowly and somberly, to emphasize his sadness, Kaname assumed.

“You just said earlier that you wouldn’t,” Kaname pointed out.

“I didn’t say I could!”

Kaname opened his mouth. Shut it. “But if you didn’t do this, who did?” he finally asked. Surely this trip wouldn’t be a complete waste?

“Wish I knew! I’d shake the fellow’s hand.” The youkai stuck his own out. “Wing. Tentacle. Appendage. You know, whatever, I’m not picky.” He paused his pantomime of shaking the imaginary youkai’s hand to scratch at his head. “Though I think he probably has none.”

“What do you mean –”

He turned away, as if Natsume hadn’t just spoken. “Oh! My cup! What has happened to you?” He carefully picked up the pieces and put them together again. Then he stuck the cup near his eye, so he was looking at first Kaname, then Natsume through the crack as if it was a looking glass.

“I spy with my little eye two little lucky idiots!”

“What do you mean lucky? What do you _know_?” Natsume asked, exasperated. “Why can’t you talk normally?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” the youkai said. “And only idiots would not know their good luck! You are alive, if a bit mismatched – hee hee, just like my shoes – and not two little spirits!”

Kaname felt his blood turn to ice. “What do you mean, spirits?”

“Hungry little spirits! Hungry for the bodies they lost!”

“What –” Kaname was beginning to feel like a broken record.

The youkai flipped backward onto a stone into the middle of the spring. “Good luck, little idiots.”

And he dove in right into the spring, which was hardly deep enough to lose a shoe in, and disappeared.

“If you do find the one who did this,” a fading echo of his voice filled the clearing, “tell him that I’d like to shake his -- whatever.”

The sake cup was the only thing that remained, tossed aside with its cracked side up.

“I get the buns from Nanatsujiya!” Ponta said.

Kaname glanced at Natsume, and they both rolled their eyes.


	9. natori shuuichi

“I was able to cross-reference a few elements of the diagram with scrolls from the Itoh archives, but the rest seems to be exclusively – What are you doing?” Shuuichi craned his neck, irritated, to see his own face hovering over his shoulder.

“Are these really handwritten notes?” Matoba asked with audible delight. 

Shuuichi turned back to the papers laid out on the floor of Matoba’s private room. His handwriting wasn’t the most exemplary, maybe, but it was still readable. “Not everyone’s memory is flawless.” And arranging scattered information in a way that let him see and move around the pieces often helped him connect the dots more quickly. 

Matoba paid no attention to Shuuichi’s glare. “Flawless memory is hardly necessary for research, but bookmarking the pages would have been faster.” 

“You were the one who suggested we reconvene here. And unless your plan was to invite yourself and Natori Shuuichi to the Matoba library for the evening, I don’t see how else we could have looked through what the records had to say together.”

The Matoba library was a splendid place: crammed to the ceiling with scrolls he had only dreamed of ever laying his eyes on, books he now wished he could forget existed, and too little time to dip into any of it. It was meticulously organized and run by the nameless, faceless shiki of the clan; he had been worried about searching the library in a way that wouldn’t reveal his identity, but it turned out that it was just a matter of using the right summons and telling the shiki what to look for. Very efficient, very impersonal, very Matoba clan.

“You could have brought the scrolls to your room,” said Matoba, delicately turning over one sheet to see if the notes continued on the other side. 

“And risk setting off an alarm?” Shuuichi asked skeptically. It didn’t take Matoba’s sight to recognize the books had been charmed against theft. The clan was very clear about what belonged to it.

“I tweaked the library wards,” Matoba said absently, still visibly engrossed in Shuuichi’s notes. “And re-wrote the orders for the library shiki a little, so that they would respond when told to deliver something to my room. No alarms triggered.”

“You hacked your own library’s security system?” Shuuichi was torn between incredulity and respect. “Just so that you could sneak books into your room? Well. Excuse me for not having guessed. You could have mentioned it earlier.”

“I forgot.” Matoba shrugged, unapologetic. “I last tampered with those spells back in high school.”

Right. 

The fact that that was a mostly legitimate excuse did not help Shuuichi’s irritation at all. 

Nor did remembering that he hadn’t even had the chance to  _ visit  _ the library until well into the night. 

“You forgot to mention a lot, apparently,” he said sourly. 

“Are you enjoying having oversight over our real estate?” Matoba asked, with all the cheerfulness of a man who had been given a surprise vacation from just that.

“The bamboo panelling catalogues in particular were very engrossing. It’s a miracle you have any time left to study exorcism.”

“You know what they say about multitasking and delegation,” Matoba waved him off. 

Shuuichi didn’t doubt he had mastered at least one of those skills, judging by how much paperwork was rerouted to poor Nanase-san. His respect for the woman, founded on healthy fear and significant as it had been, had multiplied over these two days.

“Has it ever occurred to you to invest in a secretary? Surely you could find some poor clan hanger-on who’d be eager to do the job, for a bit of small change and the excuse to ingratiate himself with you.” 

“Believe it or not, it has,” Matoba said dryly. “Turns out, the hangers-on are often more trouble than they’re worth. The few who last long enough to be of some use invariably end up getting caught snooping in confidential clan business.” 

Poor Matoba, having to deal with corporate espionage on top of sample number can’t-be-bothered-to-look. 

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that with Aozaka,” Shuuichi said. “He’s entirely too straightforward to have worked out as a clan member.” 

“Hmm.” Matoba seemed to be eyeing him strangely for a moment. What, did he think Shuuichi would have intentionally driven the other exorcist away? 

To be fair, he probably would have. If he’d thought of it. 

But whatever was going through his mind, Matoba didn’t seem interested in sharing with Shuuichi. Instead, he just shrugged gracefully. “That’s a pity. And the other two?” 

“Our culprit Noda wouldn’t be too good at corporate espionage, either. I get the feeling he’d much rather stab someone in the front and get it over with.” 

Matoba’s smile sharpened. “I can work with that. You simply have to be better at seeing the knife coming than they are at hiding it. So he admitted everything?” 

“Claimed he was testing your fitness for leadership,” Shuuichi said, not without some glee. “Happy to report you passed the test. On the surface.” 

“Whatever gets the job done,” Matoba shrugged. “Particularly if it meant he was willing to hand the spell over. So, you were saying before – something about the Itoh archives?”

“I wasn’t able to find much, even in all of your library.” Shuuichi pointed to the crinkly sheet of paper Noda had given him, and to the handwritten page next to it, filled with key outtakes from his library hours. “Barely any parts of the spell could be cross-referenced anywhere, so I suspect it is – or was – a closely held family secret. And what I  _ was  _ able to find only confirmed what we already know: it bears a certain resemblance to a few other spells meant to affect the mind-body connection. Which, by the way, some of those are  _ genuinely _ horrid, I almost wish I’d never seen them.” Knowledge was power, but some knowledge even Shuuichi would have preferred to remain hypothetical. “I also have a theory that its effects are based on proximity.” 

“I suppose I should count myself lucky that you chose that night to inspect my hedges, then,” Matoba said lazily. 

‘Lucky’ was not the word that Shuuichi would have chosen for that particular decision. 

“ _ However _ ,” he said, “There is not enough information to do more than speculate how long the spell will hold once cast, or how we might go about reversing it.” 

“Hmm.” Matoba said again. “I assume you have made an educated guess, though.” He held out a hand peremptorily.  

Shuuichi stared at the outstretched hand for a moment of intense, almost childish reluctance to hand anything hard-won over to Matoba. 

Except they  _ were  _ on the same side. For now.  

Shuuichi handed Matoba the papers jotted with his ideas on spell reversal, and suggestions on diagram modification. Matoba scanned the notes first, expression shifting slightly at several points in ways Shuuichi couldn’t quite define, then turned to inspect the diagram. 

Shuuichi realized that he was paying entirely too much attention to the shift of Matoba’s eyes and shape of his mouth as he read, and pointedly turned his attention elsewhere. Tempting though it was to continue cataloguing the minute differences in how Matoba’s expressions appeared on his own face, he doubted he could use this knowledge for anything. 

Unfortunately, Matoba’s room was almost as spartan as his own, offering no alternate distractions. 

“Ah,” Matoba said. 

Shuuichi’s attention whipped back. “Ah?” 

“I believe I’ve also seen something that could complement your diagram. The geometry is a bit archaic, but might be just right to make up for what is missing. Here, ask one of the shiki to bring you these four volumes.” Matoba wrote the names down on a scrap of paper he tore from one of Shuuichi’s note sheets. 

None of the titles were at all familiar to him, unsurprisingly. 

“Will the shiki notice that you’re here?” Shuuichi asked. He thought they’d been fairly discreet in sneaking Matoba in – amazing, the number of secret back ways he knew to get to his  _ own room _ – but he still didn’t have a good handle on how much the man-made shiki noticed … or who they’d be likely to tell. 

Matoba pursed his lips, and stood in a single smooth motion. “It’s unlikely that it would make a difference, but better to be safe than sorry. I will make myself scarce.” 

Shuuichi opened his mouth to ask what secret passage he was planning to use  _ this _ time, and shut it with a near-audible clang as the ruling head of the feared Matoba clan opened his closet door and stepped inside. 

Well. That worked too, he supposed. 

The words to summon the shiki sprang to his mouth now without hesitation, although he still couldn’t entirely suppress his shudder as it phased into existence. 

“Bring me these from the library,” he instructed, and handed it Matoba’s scrap of paper. 

The paper sunk into the shiki’s amorphous limb, and the shiki melted into the floor. 

Shuuichi opened his mouth to to tell Matoba that the coast was clear, but a knock to the door froze him mid-word.

He cast a quick assessing glance at the mess of papers on the floor. That in itself didn’t make it obvious that there’d been two of them there, and if scattering paper across the floor while doing research was an un-Matoba thing to do, presumably he would have said so. It would have to do. 

“Come in,” he called. 

The door slid open, and Nanase-san stepped through. 

Shuuichi could feel himself straighten. “Nanase-san. Is there something I can do for you?” he asked. 

The quick glance she cast across the room clearly did not miss the mess on the floor, and Shuuichi told himself sternly that he only imagined that her eyes lingered briefly on the closet door. 

“My apologies for disturbing you so late,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “I hope I am not interrupting.” 

Shuuichi signed her to continue. 

“The readers finished the forecast maps for this month. They narrowed down the arrival date, and this time, it’s almost week early.”

Her tone was calm and matter-of-fact, and it took Shuuichi a full second to grasp her words’ import.

This month.

The projected arrival.

The air itself seemed to have stilled.

“Which makes it – when, exactly?” he asked, aiming for a similarly neutral tone. If Matoba had all this information memorized, Shuuichi hoped his lapse could be ascribed to late hour research.

“Tomorrow,” Nanase said. “I ordered the preparations made as soon as I heard back from the readers. We should have a team ready by the morning, and I’ve canceled all your meetings, of course.” 

Shuuichi nodded. He didn’t ask if anything else was required of him. Someone had to answer that question, but that person was currently hiding in his closet. Matoba’s closet. Whatever. “Thank you. I appreciate the heads-up.”

“I’ll send a shiki later, once we have a better estimate of the arrival hour. It will most likely be over by noon.” She didn’t say ‘don’t stay up too late’, but Shuuichi could swear he heard it loud and clear. She glanced at the papers once again. “Until then, I’ll leave you to your research.”

It was truly a wonder how anyone still had any illusion who ran the clan. 

Nanase-san bade him goodnight and left, and Shuuichi sighed in relief as the door closed behind her. 

“You can come out of the closet now,” he said dryly. Hopefully the feared Matoba leader hadn’t fallen asleep on the rolled futons stacked on the floor.

The closet door opened, and Matoba stepped out, looking entirely unruffled. 

“You heard?” Shuuichi asked. 

“I did.” Matoba came back over to his previous spot, but rather than sitting back down, he stared, less at the papers than through them. “This will … complicate matters.” 

“With our bodies and powers swapped, who does the curse apply to, then?” Shuuichi asked as if it was an academic question, rather than a matter of life and death. “Should be me, I think.”

Matoba gave him an inscrutable look. “And yet, the shiki bonds haven’t transferred. I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Right. The contract-holder argument. Their current working theory was that the spell kicked the target out of their body so that the spellcaster could take control of it and the accompanying spiritual powers, making it easy to assume their identity. Any bonds with a youkai – including, he supposed, one scorned and seeking vengeance – were spiritual contracts, and like any other contract, they were executed between two specific parties. So when the spell broke the integrity of body, power and identity of a contract holder, it compromised the contract.

That would explain why his own shiki appeared to be trapped, incapable of manifesting. It was probably too much to hope that the Matoba curse would be similarly thrown off. 

“Do you think we can decide this by tossing a coin?” Shuuichi said. “That would solve the problem, fair and square! Very objective, and your youkai would just have to roll with it.”

“What a foolproof plan,” Matoba deadpanned. “Pity it hardly ever sticks around long enough to have a proper conversation. Even about fair play.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Shuuichi asked. “I doubt you wish to explain why a  _ Natori _ must be tied to your hip for this – family affair of yours. Unless you’re going to tell your clan your plan this time is a ritual sacrifice.” 

“– If the clan curse was interested in such things, they would long since have been tried,” Matoba said dryly. “And yes. Exceptions have been made in the past, but I agree that doing so this time would … not be my preferred path.” He paused. “You may have a point, however.” 

Shuuichi raised an eyebrow. “About ritual sacrifice?” 

Matoba’s supremely unamused expression still looked creepy on Shuuichi’s face. “A binding,” he said pointedly. “I believe I know a few spells that, with modification, may help convince our regular visitor that you are most definitely myself, in mind as well as body.” He scribbled a few words on another scrap of paper and held it out. “Ask for these from the library as well.” 

Shuuichi eyed the paper. “I thought we were looking to dissolve the connection between us, not strengthen it,” he said dubiously. 

“This will be temporary and reversible,” Matoba said, in a patient lecturing tone that just made Shuuichi want to be even more contrary. “The best way to block an attack is to know where it’s coming from. Using this binding will narrow down the potential targets to one. Unless you are a hundred percent certain that either you won’t be targeted tomorrow, or that you can fend off an attack on your own, if you are?” 

Shuuichi gritted his teeth. Matoba  _ did  _ have a point, he supposed – whatever his experience was, for dealing with this youkai it was inadequate.

“I’m not,” he said, voice clipped.

Matoba nodded and didn’t elaborate. 

Reluctantly, Shuuichi took the paper. Matoba continued to sit, wearing the same patient and expectant look. Shuuichi coughed lightly, and inclined his head slightly towards the closet. 

Giving no indication that he might have done so un-Matoba a thing as forget, Matoba stood and once again sequestered himself in the closet, though this time, he stepped back out as soon as the shiki had melted back into the floor, carrying the new request away. 

He also had a rolled-up futon in his hands.

“I don’t think smuggling myself out of the mansion would be a good use of my time,” he offered as a way of explanation. “Even aside from the binding spell, the youkai’s arrival time can only be approximated. It’s best if we are well-prepared.”

Suddenly, the fact that Shuuichi had been sleeping for the last several days in Matoba’s bed felt unbearably awkward, in the presence of the man himself. 

“I uhm. I can take the futon, if you want,” he offered.

Matoba arched an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with sleeping in my bed?”

Shuuichi could list a few things.

“It’s a perfectly serviceable bed,” he said instead. He had never felt more clumsy in his life, and that was counting the photoshoot for a luxury underwear line that he had had to step out of, in the end. An opportune clash with an assignment he had not wanted to decline. Capturing a spirit boar was vastly preferable to lounging on a balcony on a miserably windy day, covered in glitter and goosebumps.

He willed himself to look at Matoba without thinking about luxury underwear. 

Matoba just stood there, unhelpful as ever, the futon still in his hands.

Shuuichi opened his mouth. Closed it. 

“You don’t think that’s a bit. Conspicuous.”

The words blurted themselves out, without much control on his part. His brain switched on only for the second thought that inevitably followed up, turning his feet to ice. 

Matoba hummed, looking at the heavy roll in his arms as if he had just seen it. “You are right. A second futon would be harder to explain away or hide quickly than a stack of handwritten notes.” With a shrug, he carried the futon back into closet, squeezed it back on the shelf and slid the door back.

Shuuichi felt cornered, and couldn’t even blame it on Matoba this time.

“It would appear that leaves us with only one bed,” Matoba said, surveying the room. “What poor hosting on my part.”

What Shuuichi wanted to say was, ‘You likely don’t get much practice.’ 

What he said instead was, “It’s serviceable, as I said.” 

The bed suddenly loomed large, dominating the room like a proverbial elephant.

At least it was not a single.

Matoba bent down to pick one of the papers from the floor, his interest in their sleeping arrangements seemingly exhausted. Good. Shuuichi didn’t think he had it in himself to argue about who got which side of the bed at the moment.

“The shiki will be back with a copy of the binding spell soon, I think – it’s not that deep in the archives, if I remember well. Until then, I have a few suggestions on how to improve this.” 

Relieved, Shuuichi nodded and went to look over Matoba’s shoulder.

 

Shuuichi had changed his mind.

The bed was not  _ nearly  _ large enough. 

For one, he could tell with absolutely certainty that Matoba was on it. 

Whoever said that the darkness was merciful and could conceal any number of dark secrets was a terrible liar. This one refused to allow him any illusion of privacy or solitude. Instead, it loomed heavy over him, an unhelpful conductor of body heat and crystal clear awareness of who it belonged to.

Or, Shuuichi thought frantically. Or it was always possible that this was some side effect of the spell that Matoba hadn’t deigned to warn him about. That would be logical, too: the spiritual binding manifesting on the physical plane as this uncomfortable hyperawareness of each other.

The thought was reassuring. There was a familiar comfort in annoyance with Matoba.

The careful stillness next to him was too similar to his own, deliberate and wakeful. Probably experiencing the same side effects, Shuuichi decided. 

“This must be strange even for you,” he said lightly, hoping to puncture the darkness and bleed some of the tension out of it.

“This,” Matoba said. “Care to define  _ this _ ?”

Shuuichi didn’t want to define  _ this _ . “Being Natori Shuuichi, the actor, for one,” he said instead, pulling at the easiest thread. “You’ve probably never had to deal with the likes of a film crew running high on drama and caffeine. Endless takes of the same inane dialogue. You must find it confusing and boring, at least.”

Atavistic guilt pricked at him; he probably should have asked earlier. But Shuuichi dismissed the thought. If being head of the Matoba clan had taught him anything, it was to de-prioritize and delegate, and trust that anything important would be brought back to his attention. Repeatedly. 

“Oh, I actually really enjoyed it.” There was no way of seeing Matoba’s expression in the dark, but his voice held no trace of irony. “I didn’t expect quite so many takes, maybe, but the film crew is very dynamic. And I wouldn’t call the script boring – it has decent entertainment value.”

Shuuichi propped himself on one elbow and stared in disbelief into the patch of darkness that failed to conceal Matoba’s opinions on the budget drama industry. “Decent entertainment value,” he repeated flatly. “Are you joking?”

“What would I gain from that?” Matoba’s voice came a bit closer now, clear and surprised.

“This show is garbage that goes directly to Sunday morning television!”

Unless Shuuichi’s ears were playing tricks on him, Matoba had just tried to stifle a chuckle.

How was that for a bizarre experience.

“I thought the crew was very dedicated to making the, ah,  _ garbage _ , the best production they could,” he said, clearly still enjoying himself. 

Shuuichi huffed and flopped back on his pillow. Maybe he should have saved his worry for the crew instead.

“You don’t like it?” Matoba’s voice was light and curious. “The crew seems to hold you… your acting skills in high regard. Especially Hayashi-san.”

“Hayashi-san? I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for her to have a high opinion of  _ anyone _ ,” Shuuichi snorted. 

_ Did  _ he like it, thought? What a strange question. And from Matoba, of all people. Shuuichi didn’t even ask it of himself. His resources were limited, but he knew an asset where he saw one – and in the mirror was as good a place as any other – and he had learnt to put it to a good use. It paid decently, it gave him a certain independence, and it left time to concentrate on other things. 

“It’s a job like any other,” he said truthfully.

“I see.” Matoba shifted lightly – Shuuichi guessed that he had put an arm under his face. “Speaking of jobs, I took care of a minor assignment you were approached for.”

“You did WHAT now?” Shuuichi sat straight up on the bed, all signs of sleep lost.

“There is no point getting agitated now,” Matoba sounded unconcerned. “It’s a done thing already. I left the payment in your apartment.”

“We had an agreement! Keep spellcasting to an absolute minimum.  _ You  _ were the one who suggested it, even.” Matoba had probably had his family secrets in mind when saying that, and sure, Shuuichi’s assignments would hardly compare. It stung all the same.

“I didn’t take any uncalculated risks,” Matoba said, cool and unapologetic. “It was not an involved assignment; just the right level to test if I would have any trouble using your powers. It would have come to that sooner or later. This was just on my terms.”

The cold feeling came back, settling under his tingling skin like a lump of ice. That was definitely safer than taking Matoba’s borrowed skills for a test-drive in front of his family curse.

All words of protest curdled in Shuuichi’s mouth. He silently settled on the bed again, facing the wall this time.

“You don’t have to be so concerned about tomorrow.”

He didn’t want to talk anymore, about tomorrow or otherwise. 

“The clansmen know their job well. They’ll chase it away. You just have to be there to draw it in.”

Matoba’s conciliatory tone left much to be desired, in Shuuichi’s opinion. “So you said.”

“So it will be. Have some faith. The clan has competence in the area.”

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose to the surface. Being asked to put trust in the Matoba clan’s experience with underhanded methods was not the most conventional reassurance, but he had to admit the argument was hard to beat.

Especially when there was no other choice.


	10. matoba seiji

Early morning sunlight filtered through the narrow windows and fell in thin stripes across boxes and scrolls – inventoried in theory, although in practice the ink markings on most had worn down into complete illegibility. Seiji had moved the boxes away from the window that offered the best angle on the garden grounds, careful not to break the old paper seals on any of them. 

From his current vantage point, he could already see the clansmen arranging themselves in a protective circle around Shuuichi-san. The distance and angle weren’t optimal for interference, but ideally, none should prove necessary, and the building was far enough out of the way that it was unlikely anyone would stumble in and wonder why a scion of the Natori family had set up camp here. 

It would have to do.  

Below, Shuuichi-san stood calmly, no sign of the previous night’s concerns in his stance. At a distance, it was less difficult to believe that he had successfully fooled the clan for this long. 

Seiji shivered. Preparations had started early – no one wanted to give the youkai a chance to catch them unawares – and the storehouse was drafty. Perhaps he should have brought Shuuichi-san’s jacket as well. 

No matter. Minor inconveniences could be easily ignored when there were larger stakes at play. 

He had confidence it would work out. Just as he had told Shuuichi-san, Seiji had a good grasp of his borrowed powers now. Good enough to gauge that they could carry a certain spell, at least.

Seiji watched one of the junior clan members offer everyone umbrellas with a distinct pattern that mimicked an eye. Another clansman had just finished renewing the wards around the clearing.  Basic precautions both, but still useful. And like any ritual, it imbued people with a measure of reassurance: a conviction that they could have control over a situation provided they got each part of the ceremony right.

Gave them something to do.

Shuuichi-san accepted his umbrella with a wordless nod and opened it above his head, giving it one slow twirl. The umbrella hid his face from Seiji, but it’s not like Shuuichi-san had been able to see him before, either. Seiji had told him he would be around, close by in case there was a need for unplanned intervention, and reminded Shuuichi-san that his role was to be there and nothing else. 

He hadn’t even had to lie about  _ that _ .

Seiji whispered a small incantation that breathed more energy into the spells he’d set up to pass along to him any distress signals received by the house wards. Hijacking them directly hadn’t seemed worth the effort when he could get what he needed in an easier way. 

An even easier option would have been to be present on the grounds, up close and personal, just like the youkai prefered it, but he couldn’t risk being seen as Shuuichi-san. The odds of being hunted down and shot by Nanase-san to protect the secrets of her clan’s head were too high to ignore.

Still, given his current location, that shouldn’t be an issue. 

Below, Shuuichi-san looked upward, gazing contemplatively at the sky. The movement put his face in Seiji’s line of sight, as if he could sense his presence. 

The skin on Seiji’s knuckles tightened. The temporary binding spell should not have had that side-effect; mere coincidence, then.

A high-pitched thrum against the wards brought Seiji’s focus sharply to the stage.

It was coming.

The clansmen on the ground had arranged themselves in the usual defence formation, the biggest advantage of which was a chance to confuse the youkai before it could make its first lunge. 

It was always up to the clan’s head to deflect the strike. His first deliberate untruth. 

The air ripped and distorted as the hideous figure manifested itself above the crowd. As always, it seemed bigger and messier than should be possible, an angry tear in a clear sky spilling curses against a thief who had run away. Younger clan members flinched at the ferocity, but stood their ground. Well-trained. 

Their fear was understandable: the youkai  _ was _ agitated. It could not detect its target, and the confusion fueled its rage – and as its rage grew, so did its powers. What they were witnessing was a massive temper tantrum by a spirit denied its chance to jump its prey. 

Both parties knew the rules of this game. One of which was that the youkai  _ hated _ it when someone broke the rules.

Well, tweaked was more like it. Seiji had no desire to break the rules of the game: the arrangement had its downsides, but none worth permanently ending it. The binding spell he had cast the previous evening made it impossible to tell who the clan head was, washing the identity completely between the two of them. The sum of the components was something different from either of them on their own. 

It  _ was  _ a binding spell, even if he had misled Shuuichi-san about its desired effect. His second lie that evening.

The youkai thrashed and wailed in the sky, blind fury making it insensitive to the damage inflicted by the house wards every time it threw itself against them. Not enough to drive it away, but very effective at feeding its rage. The raw power of the spirit’s grudge tore at the clansmen’s robes and made the trees in the garden creak and bend.

It would return next month, even angrier and more destructive than this, Seiji knew. He was counting on it.

After all, much of life was a matter of arranging the consequences you chose to face.

Seiji told himself not to glance at Shuuichi-san’s wristwatch. By his calculations, once denied the bait, the youkai soon would leave, to nurture its grudge and lick at its wounds. Not without having thrashed against the house wards a little, but those could benefit from some additional field testing.

The mindless beast made another circle above the heads of the clansmen gathered on the ground, and gave an angry roar.

Seiji could see the confusion in several of the younger clansmen’s postures; a few umbrellas sagged uncertainly. (Unfortunately, he couldn’t see exact faces – he hoped Shuuichi-san was taking notes; slips like that were unacceptable.) 

True, the current behavior was not usually demonstrated by the curse youkai. Typically, once manifested over a crowd, it would lock onto Seiji and make a lunge without prowling around. In a more predatory mood, it would seek to stalk its prey in solitude.

Still, there was no excuse for sloppy defense. This was neither the first, nor would it be the last time that something unusual happened – as the veterans in the crowd were well aware; not one of them wavered. Of the two parties involved in this equilibrium, it was not the Matobas’ role to get predictable.

Another circle above the crowd. 

And another.

Seiji observed the trajectory of its flight with increasing concern; it was no longer knocking into the wards. This was not the berserker rage he had counted on: the anger now had a purpose, a focus.

It was still prowling for its prey.

The realization was chillingly unpleasant; Seiji was not in the habit of miscalculating often. 

The binding spell must have blurred the spiritual lines well enough to disguise his identity; otherwise there would have been no confusion. But that no longer seemed the optimal solution, when the youkai’s hungry attention was palpable, and deliberate, and seemed willing to settle for lesser prey. 

That did not bode well for anyone on the mansion grounds. There was a reason why the Matoba head always made himself the clearest target.

He was the only one who could deflect the strike, time and again.

As if satisfied that its intentions were now clear to Seiji, the youkai didn’t linger much longer. 

Its lunge was sudden, and precise.

Several things happened at once:

Nanase-san angled her umbrella in time to let the claws of the youkai tear at the enchanted paper and wood instead of her face. Mangled, the umbrella was now little more than a wooden stick, pointed against an enraged spirit.

Seiji pulled tight the invisible chain he had readied as soon as he realized the youkai would attack someone. The spell’s advantages were its invisibility, independence from any material sources of power, and a relatively short casting time. Versatility, delicacy in employment, or responsiveness to further commands weren’t on the list.

To put it bluntly, it was an invisible harpoon: once thrown – and if aimed accurately – it would lodge into its target, and when pulled back, it would drag the target with it. 

A suboptimal solution, given the need to keep a low profile. But Seiji was working with what he had; the spell was fast enough, and powerful enough to yank the youkai off its current trajectory.

And towards Seiji, of course.

The youkai shrieked and jerked to the side, twisting in pain. Unsurprising: though invisible, the harpoon dealt some physical damage. Seiji gave the chain another yank, which drew another wail of pain from the creature, but didn’t move it one inch.

Nanase-san, of course, didn’t waste the moment of its hesitation: she jabbed the creature with the sharp spike that used to be her wooden umbrella. The youkai roared in pain and lunged to brush away the spike, and Nanase-san with it, but nothing happened.

Because someone else had bound it, limb to the body. Someone holding the loose end of the spiritual net that now encircled the youkai.

With a growing sense of inevitability, Seiji turned his eyes off the youkai to see Shuuichi-san standing arrow-straight, his hands spread apart, fists tight around the invisible net pulling the youkai towards him. The umbrella rolled on its side several steps behind him, discarded and forgotten.

Any Matoba clan member would have known better than to stand in the line of fire of the curse without the umbrella’s protection. 

Shuuichi-san was many things, but a Matoba clansman he wasn’t.

Seiji bit into his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

He didn’t have many options at this point. Which really only meant that he had no time to waste on worrying about possible consequences.

Carefully, so that the invisible harpoon would stay lodged in its place, Seiji started unravelling the previous night’s binding spell. Like slowly unwrapping bandages around a wound, letting a little blood taint the waters and draw in the predator. 

The youkai jerked in its chains with such force that Shuuichi-san involuntarily took a step forward. Nanase-san, ever the sensible exorcist, was gesturing the other clan members to get out of the way.

The youkai had sensed the bait. The next step was going to be trickier: while Seiji had a good guess as to what was kind of spell Shuuichi-san had employed (and gave him credit for having something other than a paper-based exorcism in his repertoire), he was not sure if in his current situation he could directly counter a spell cast with Seiji’s own powers.

The irony of the situation didn’t escape him.

Quick. Think. Did he actually have to counter that spell? 

A solution came to his mind, so simple that he had to bite back a laugh.

Necessity was truly the mother of invention. 

A quick spell – child’s play, really, something children in exorcist clans figured out even before they embarked on formal training – and Shuuichi-san tripped and fell. Nothing more arcane than a simple push of power, crudely used to make an unsuspecting person lose their balance. 

Shuuichi-san was quick to rise to his feet, but it was already too late: his invisible net slipped from his grasp, and the youkai quickly took advantage of its partial freedom. It inflated to twice its size, roaring and flying about, anchored by nothing but Seiji’s harpoon spell.

Time to run, then.

Seiji dismissed the harpoon spell and dashed down the stairs and out the exit. He had to trust that his clan knew their roles during this event well enough – either be part of the defence formation, or stay far enough away to  _ not _ become collateral damage – that his way would be clear. He could still hear the occasional roar and feel the thrumming of the wards as they once again came under attack, but couldn’t tell if it was coming this direction. 

He had to trust that the youkai would follow him. Couldn’t waste time wondering what would happen if it didn’t. 

At least he was fairly certain he’d removed himself from the storehouse before Nanase-san could send someone to take a look around; he knew better than to believe that she would have failed to notice the youkai being pulled in two directions – or to triangulate the source of the second – simply because it had been her own life in danger at the time. 

And at least he’d had the foresight to choose one of the storehouses nearest the forest. He only had to pass through a single rock garden, which was almost as deserted as he’d hoped: all he encountered was a shiki standing guard by a stone lantern. 

Seiji considered banishing it, just in case, but it did not even raise its paper head to watch his passage; it was probably safe enough to leave it alone for now. 

By the time he reached the forest, quickly leaving the well-trodden paths and heading towards its thicker parts, the wards had stopped buzzing, and he could no longer hear the curse shrieking, either. Seiji paused, slowing and quieting his breath, and listened: he could still hear the faint sounds of human activity, but that was all. 

And no birdsong.  _ Something _ was coming. 

He cast a quick glance at his surroundings. Not ideal – he really did prefer working in larger clearings than the space between a handful of tall trees – but now the forest was his only chance to face the youkai one on one. 

He planted his feet, took a deep breath, and exhaled, falling easily into the focus he would need to perform the banishment. 

The soundless, anticipatory pause dragged on. 

And on.

Seiji’s palms, arranged and frozen in the first gesture of the banishment spell, were steady. Posed to execute the exorcism on the shortest notice, as soon as the youkai appeared. He still refused to consider the alternative. It  _ would  _ follow him here, as it had found and followed him before. 

The bond between them – as cursed a thing as it was – transcended the body he inhabited. The one constant in his life would not fail to recognize him due simply to a change in his material body. 

The youkai  _ would not  _ lose their game so easily.

Branches rustled nearby, and Seiji’s eyes narrowed as he turned to face the incoming threat. He drew a breath – 

And  _ he  _ came stumbling into the clearing, eyepatch stark across his face, and for a single dizzy moment Seiji wondered if the youkai could really be  _ that stupid _ – 

But no. He wouldn’t put it past the youkai to attempt to mimic him, especially given such an amusing opportunity to do so, but it would not be capable of mimicking not just Seiji’s outer form, but the entirely un-Matoba-like way in which Shuuichi-san stumbled to a halt, blinking at him. 

Seiji exhaled, his fingers relaxing. “What,” he began frostily, “are  _ you _ doing –” 

Crashing again, from the direction of the house, and – 

“Above!” Shuuichi-san yelped, and Seiji had just enough time to look upward and curse his lack of umbrella – he really should have stopped to pick up a spare – when something wrapped around his waist and yanked. Hard. 

(If he could get  _ that _ sort of power from a simple paper chain, perhaps Seiji had been remiss in not attempting to learn more of the Natori family’s trademark spells.) 

Seiji felt the youkai lunge past – almost close enough to touch – as the chain pulled him out of the way, knocking the wind out of him and crashing him into Shuuichi-san. 

“Last I heard, it’s the job of the head of the clan to deal with this guy,” Shuuichi-san said, catching Seiji’s fall and helping him straighten up, while Seiji fought to catch his breath. 

Another paper chain had already wrapped around the youkai, pulling it back and tying it to a tree; the one Shuuichi-san had used on Seiji loosened its grip and slithered towards the youkai, coiling even more tightly around the tree. 

It was. Undeniably efficient. 

“And last I heard, that’s currently –” 

Seiji shook himself. Centered, breathed, formed the first sign, and spoke. 

As the last syllable passed his lips, the clearing flashed with light. Not quite as bright as usual, but … sufficient. The youkai roared, the sound very familiar in the quality of its pain, and when the spots faded from Seiji’s eyes, he and Shuuichi-san were alone in the clearing once more. 

“Me,” Seiji said. 

Shuuichi-san opened his mouth, looking like he planned to object to this assessment, but paused when Seiji raised a hand. 

Voices. Still distant, but it wouldn’t take them long to reach this clearing, and the recent light show should have been all they needed to pinpoint it. 

Which meant it was time for Seiji to make himself scarce. 

“Your audience awaits,” he said dryly. “... Fix your eyepatch.” 

Seiji didn’t stay to watch. If he left now, he could take a moment to banish that one shiki on the way back inside. Just in case.

 

“That. Did  _ not _ go according to plan,” Shuuichi-san said, much later, when he had escaped the ministrations of the clan to rejoin Seiji in his private room. He eyed Seiji with what was, admittedly, entirely warranted suspicion. “At least, not according to the plan  _ I _ was aware of.” 

Nor the one he had  _ not  _ been made aware of, at that.

“I made a few miscalculations,” Seiji said. 

Shuuichi-san waited, still looking at him, but if he expected Seiji to provide a detailed accounting of his errors, he would have a long wait ahead of him. 

Apparently, Shuuichi-san came to the same conclusion; he shook his head and sighed. “Well. It worked out in the end, I suppose.” 

It had missed Seiji’s assumptions by a mile. There had nearly been a body count. It had necessitated a reckless dash to make good on an even more reckless bet.

But in a manner of speaking, it had.

“Indeed.” 

Seiji walked to the stack of notes on spell reversal they had made the previous night. “We can’t afford to spend much longer researching this.”

Shuuichi-san looked towards Seiji. Not arguing, for once, just listening.

“We now have solid evidence that operating with each other’s respective spiritual powers is possible,” Seiji said, choosing his words carefully, “and can be done without inducing suspicion, as long as we stay away from our signature spells.” Seiji observed that Shuuichi-san didn’t contend this point. “Conveniently, that still leaves us plenty of overlap without having to take into account our limitations.” 

Shuuichi-san rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond otherwise. He must be more affected by his brush with the curse youkai than he let on. Seiji didn’t hold that against him; it was, after all, not something he should have had to deal with. 

“But the devil is in the details,” Seiji continued. There were too many unknowns. Too many scenarios where despite all his knowledge, miscalculations were too probable. “And it only takes one exorcist noticing something out of place.”

Shuuichi-san gave a slow nod. “Which, honestly, could happen anytime either of us casts a spell in public.”

“And the more time we spend researching this, the greater the risk of discovery becomes.”

“Because if the push comes to shove, and we have to react with a magical fist to someone’s face, the fist could be traced to the right person,” Shuuichi-san said with a grin. 

“Crudely put, but yes.” Seiji smiled, relieved. 

“Let’s do it, then,” Shuuichi-san said. Something of Seiji’s surprise must have shown on his face, as Shuuichi-san raised an eyebrow. “The sooner we change back, the sooner I don’t have to deal with your paperwork anymore.” 

Shuuichi-san’s tone was light, but his eyes were sharp. Seiji thought he would think about that later. It was more important to capitalize on the principal agreement at the moment.

“Tomorrow?” Shuuichi-san asked, all business again. “You’re hosting another exorcist meeting, and I believe Noda-san can be easily persuaded to attend.” 

“Ah, yes. I assume your invitation is … somewhere in your apartment?” Seiji couldn’t recall having seen it, but he hadn’t gone digging through every stack of paper. 

“I might have tossed it,” Shuuichi-san said with an easy shrug. “If you can’t find it, just crash without one. It won’t be the first time I’ve done so.” 

That much was certainly true. One could not accuse Shuuichi-san of being overly fond of exorcist etiquette.

“Well,” Seiji glanced at Shuuichi-san’s wristwatch, “then we have several hours to finish putting together the counterspell.”

“What about my other appointments?” Shuuichi-san asked dubiously. 

Seiji couldn’t keep his smile off his face. How responsible, at the end of the day. “Nanase-san cleared your schedule for today, if you remember.”

The relief on Shuuchi-san’s face was comically palpable. “Right.” 

When he’d first ascended to the position of clan head, Seiji had tried to insist that it was unnecessary. Clearing the day of all obligations was a custom that remained from the days when the clan was not yet able to narrow down the appearance of the cursed youkai to a matter of hours, and later upkept because some of his predecessors had needed the rest of the day to recover from the experience. 

Seiji never had. 

(Except once. And that one had taken longer than a day.) 

But over time, he’d come to appreciate the day off; it gave him a chance catch up on some reading. And today, it would be particularly useful – Shuuchi-san didn’t appear in need of serious rest, either, which meant they could use the time to prepare for tomorrow without interruptions.

Seiji rifled through the stack of scrolls and handwritten notes, and handed several to Shuuichi-san. “Here. You look through those to work this into a counter-spell; I’ll put together the diagram.” 

He nodded and took them without complaint, and Seiji settled in to read. 

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed in comfortable quiet, interspersed with occasional discussion. They pinned several sheets of paper together, building a single chart big enough to accommodate all details of the counter-spell. The rays of the setting sun were beginning to slant their way across the floor when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Shuuichi-san’s head shot up, and he threw a glance at Seiji. “That’ll be dinner,” Seiji said. “They don’t bother to come in; just wait a few minutes and the hall will be empty.” 

“Convenient,” Shuuichi-san said. 

When he stood, Seiji stood too, stretching out limbs that had been in the same position for too long. “I shall take this as my cue to leave as well,” he said. 

Shuuichi-san paused, hand on the door. “But –” 

Seiji waited, but nothing else seemed forthcoming. “Surely you can sleep in my bed alone?” 

Shuuichi-san sputtered. 

“And I believe I have a party to publically crash from  _ outside _ , tomorrow night.” 

“You’ve made your point,” Shuuichi-san said hastily. “Go get your beauty sleep. Elsewhere.”

Seiji tried to toss his head in proper Natori fashion, and smile sparklingly. “Does this look like a face that needs beauty sleep?” 

From the horror on Shuuichi-san’s face, he couldn’t tell whether he’d done terribly, or entirely too well.  

“Yes. I know from experience it does.” Shuuichi-san pointed to the door. “Out.” 

Seiji inclined his head slightly, suppressing his amusement. “Until tomorrow, then.” 


End file.
